Dalshon
by gythia
Summary: A sequel to Whitestar 97. B5/ Time Yarns crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Dalshon

This is a sequel to Whitestar 97. Story sequence: 1. The Loribond; 2. Dark Horse; 3. Whitestar 97; 4. Dalshon.

"Who taught you to run a loader, you b—bumbling—fools!" Carla caught herself just in time. Whose idea had it been to teach the whole crew to 'speak human', again? Ah, Khunnier's, that was right. Carla had no problem communicating in the Minbari warrior caste language, even if she did sound like a dalshon pirate with her Coastline accent. But in English it was hard not to throw in Marine-style epithets that would really not be good things to say to a Minbari.

"Sorry, Captain," said the young warrior who had knocked over the supply piles. Except for herself and Firuun, the whole crew was young. Nearly all of them had come to Whitestar 97 straight from school.

His friend, another young member of Firuun's clan, tried to defend him. "No one taught us to run a loader, Captain. It's worker caste work. We were only trained to fight."

"And how exactly does a warship fight without supplies? Hmm? Do you see any worker caste crew members?"

"No, Captain." The one who had spoken dropped his gaze, bowing his head slightly. In a Minbari, the gesture did not signal guilt but submission.

It still felt weird to see a Minbari make that gesture to her.

Carla tromped up the ramp back onto her ship. They had been forward-deployed at the edges of known space for months, ostensibly looking for unknown threats. In reality they had been scattering Dilis's factories around in secret locations. Dilis was gone now, and so was the isolab, its walls removed from the ship. Carla thought she had felt the ship sigh in relief when they were taken out.

Now they were coming back to civlilization. If one could call this freewheeling port civilization. The official name of this station orbiting a cold rock in a star system claimed by no race was Untika, a Brakiri word for marketplace. Its unofficial name was Teeknab, a Drazi word meaning cobbled-together.

Untika was a child of the Interstellar Alliance, an instant city-state created by a multiracial commercial consortium. It was built on the cheap by using the hulls of ships wrecked in various wars. As a free port open to all races, it was a sort of poor being's Babylon 5. Without all the ambassadors and government regulations. It did not even have a customs check. It was a smugglers' paradise, with possible ties to piracy, but the Whitestar was not here to shut it down. Rangers came here to gather intelligence, but they did not interfere with Untika's sovereign independence.

Carla found Firuun in the engine room, as usual. He was still the chief engineer in addition to being first officer.

"I think we need to draw up a training regimen for the crew," Carla told him. "In addition to the weekly den'bok matches. We'll put language instruction on hold for now, it's not really mission-critical and I'm more comfortable speaking Minbari anyway. We can put operating commercial cargo equipment at the top of the list."

Firuun chuckled. "What did they do now? Never mind, I can guess."

"Have you gotten a chance to look at the ship-hull we're locked onto?" Carla asked. "I'm told it used to be a Dilgar warship."

"Yes. It's too bad Dilis didn't get to see it. I know manufacturing is what she chose to do, but I feel like I've lost both my children."

Carla clapped a hand on his shoulder pauldron in sympathy. She never knew the right thing to say to people in emotional pain, despite all the practice she had gotten at it in the loribond victims' support group. So she focused on distraction instead. "When we're done with the resupply, let's go pub-crawling and forget our troubles."

"Sure. Too bad I can't get drunk."

"Well, you could, but then you might forget you're on my side when the bar fight starts."

Whitestar 97 finished its resupply and minor repairs the following day, and Carla and Firuun led a large group of the ship's company to a local nightspot, a hollowed-out, echoing chamber still known by the name of the ship it had once been, Earth Alliance warship Persephone. It was under Centauri management, and would have been better known as the Bacchus.

Carla had selected it precisely because it was Centauri-owned and attracted a lot of their kind. Even in recreation, she was still toughening herself in the Anla'shok way, pushing herself to deeper levels of courage.

The evening seemed uneventful until they headed back. Carla had tried her best to pick a fight with a few different people, for the sake of stress relief, but nobody seemed interested in having a nice little fistfight with the weird human who was backed by a couple of dozen black armored Minbari warriors.

Carla was as thoroughly sloshed as she could get with her partial stomach, leaning heavily on Khunnier for balance, on the way back to the ship when the bomb exploded.

Boom!

Everything went dark. People screamed and ran into each other.

Shrapnel tore into Carla's arm and something heavy knocked her off her feet.

Pressure doors slammed shut, sealing compartments off from air loss, as they had been designed to do on the various types of ships from which Untika was built.

Firuun yelled into his comlink, but could not raise the ship. They were cut off.

Carla reached up with her undamaged right arm and tried to push off what had fallen on her, and felt cloth. Red emergency lights came on, and she saw it was Khunnier, unconscious.

The crushing weight of a heavy Minbari body over hers…

Carla tried to shake off the sudden panic. She told herself she ought to be concerned for Khunnier instead of wallowing in fear of the past. She was ashamed of herself. Her first time on Tifar had been seventeen, no eighteen years ago now. Every time she thought she was finally over it, something stirred it all back up again.

Someone pulled Khunnier off of her and she sat up. "Is he alive?"

"Yes." It was one of the young Windswords, Firuun's little cousins. "What's happening, Captain? Are we under attack?"

"I don't know." Carla looked around for cover and spotted an open door. "In there. Off the street."

They bundled themselves into the corridor, leaving the door open just a little to see out. They set Khunnier in a sitting position against a wall. One of the Windswords took up a guard position by the door.

"You and you," Carla ordered. "Go to the bend in the corridor and hold it." Two young warriors set off. "Firuun, any ideas what caused that?"

"It didn't sound like a blowout from a malfunction, although I can't be certain without looking at it. But this section of Untika looks like Minbari construction. Maybe part of a wreck from the Shadow War. And I know all the sounds a Minbari war cruiser can make. I think it was explosive ordinance."

"A bomb," Carla said. "See if you can get through to the ship. If not, try the local emergency channels."

The warrior at the door reported, "Local security forces approaching."

"Alright, open the door slowly, don't present any weapons. I'm going out to talk to them."

She waved at the five beings of differing races in the grey uniforms of the local constabulary. "We have wounded. Also we're offering assistance."

One of the them peeled off to speak to her, asking for details on the injured and ordering medical help for them. "Who are you and what kind of assistance are you offering?"

"Captain Carla Punch of Whitestar 97. Military assistance, crowd control. Local space blockade, if I can get through to my ship."

"We'll get you a channel. Have your ship intercept any outgoing traffic. Then get your wounded to the evac center, the med assistants will show you." He pointed over his shoulder at the medical team that was following the police team. "We don't need any assistance with on station security. This is a local matter."

"Understood," Carla said. There were few things more annoying to local police forces than interference from military busybodies. The last thing she wanted was to step on anyone's jurisdictional toes.

Carla got on the police comm and gave the orders to her ship. Then she moved her men out to the emergency evacuation center, a smallish hull of Drazi origin which served as a temporary hospital when the main facility was closed off because the pressure doors were down.

Firuun carried Khunnier with rather more effort than that with which he had carried Sheridan. Khunnier was short and slight, but he was Minbari; he had the dense Minbari skeleton. He massed a lot without appearing massive to human eyes.

When they had gotten Khunnier onto a gurney—flat and unlucky, but there were no slanted Minbari style platforms available—Carla and the others who had taken minor hits lined up to have their shrapnel removed. Firuun spotted something that riveted his attention, and picked his way between the wounded in a surprisingly nimble way for such a large, tall person.

He was graceful. She had noticed his fluidity of motion in the sparring ring when he had a Fighting Pike in his hand, but during the weekly shipwide den'bok matches, she had never just looked at him without thinking about combat.

Carla thought, 'I wonder if he's proportionately large all over.' Then she looked away. 'In Valen's name, you have to live on that ship. Don't mess up your nest. You don't want to become an "intolerable situation" like his first wife. Oh no, no, I meant, his late wife. He's only ever had one wife. Gah.'

Carla turned her attention to her uninjured crewmen, standing around looking like they wanted something to do. "Go get some rest. If you can help with anything, I'll let you know."

It was Carla's turn. "Embedded shrapnel." The Brakiri doctor spoke to her in English. It felt weird; she had just been speaking Minbari, and she felt like her brain was shifting around uncomfortably inside, adjusting itself to the differing mindset of human language. He continued, "Fairly small pieces. Some of those will just lift out, others will have to be surgically removed. There's a problem. We've run out of anesthetics that are safe to use on humans. There wasn't much stored here. But it could be tomorrow before pressure is restored and this section regains free movement with the rest of Untika."

"Just do it," Carla said. She almost added, 'I have a high tolerance', but that was not precisely true. She had learned to live with constant pain, once, but that had been a long time ago. And she had not tolerated it; it had broken her.

The doctor started picking the shrapnel out of her left arm, and Carla looked around for something to distract herself with. She saw Firuun speaking intensely to an elderly Minbari she did not recognize. Firuun gave the other Minbari a heart-touch, something she had only ever seen him do with his daughter. Who was that guy?

End of chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Dalshon

Chapter 2

"Calann," Firuun greeted his kinsman, wide-eyed. Firuun whispered so as not to disturb the wounded. "I thought you were going to the sea."

"I did. Sailed right across. I was still alive when I reached the other side. So I went to the sea of stars."

Firuun and his elderly clan-mate exchanged a heart-touch and bow.

"What an adventure you must have had," Firuun said.

"Oh, yes. I'll tell you all about it, when you get all our folk together. I see some Windswords waiting for the doctors over there. How is Dilis?"

"Dilis—Dilis went into m—" manufacturing, except he could not talk about that out here in the open, where just anyone could hear him. Dilis's failsafe factories were supposed to be a secret. "—medicine," Firuun finished. Which was true enough. "She decided the military life was not for her. It was my fault. I sent her on a raid where she saw people killed, and I chose her because the team needed to pass for doctors to get inside. I chose her for her ability to talk on at length about medical research, for a commando raid! What was I thinking?"

Firuun had never expressed his remorse that baldly before. He could not, to the crew, or he would undermine his authority. He could not, to Carla, because he sent Dilis there to rescue her. Well, and Sheridan, of course.

Calann looked at him kindly. "I have always said Dilis has the heart of a healer. Do not blame yourself for another's calling."

"I wanted her to be with me. I wanted to turn Whitestar 97 into a Windsword clan ship, like we used to have in the time before Valen."

"You have. We're nearly a third of the crew now, aren't we?"

"Yes. Look! The Captain's coming our way. Captain Carla Punch, Calann of Clan Imbalo. He was the clan chief before me."

"An honor to meet you," Carla said, bowing in the Minbari way, her hands up in triangle points.

Calann returned the gesture. "And you." Calann smiled and said softly, "Even here, the Dalshon come to me. What a strange thing it is, to hear those cadences and tonal vowels from a human mouth."

Calann started humming. The melody raised the hairs on the back of Carla's neck.

"What is it?" Firuun asked her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

Calann stopped humming and said, "The Dalshon see many ghosts. They see them off, to the land that is no land."

"I know that song," Carla said raggedly. Suddenly she did not feel very well. She had not really been all that drunk before the bomb went off, but her reduced stomach was roiling terribly now. She was afraid she was going to upchuck more of that green fizz that had come out the first week after the surgery that stitched what was left of her guts back together.

She put a hand to her mouth and dashed off in what she hoped proved to be the direction of the head, or at least an empty room.

She rounded a corner and nearly mowed down a small Minbari male. Rebounding from him, she automatically offered an apology in the military caste language, while he did the same in the religious caste language. He was already through a door when she finally placed his face and voice.

"In Valen's name! It's the deserter! What's his name—Lennier!"

Carla followed him, but he was gone like a deer into the forest. She went off to find her unwounded soldiers, and set them to tracking down the Anla'shok deserter. He could not get very far as long as the pressure doors were down.

She was not quite sure what to do with him when she found him. There was no actual order for his arrest. That absence was a glaring omission, a silence that spoke volumes. Lennier had been Delenn's aide before he joined the Anla'shok, as all the Anla'shok knew. Delenn's personal history was an obsession among some of the Rangers, and Carla had heard all the official stories and all the Anla'shok scuttlebutt too. If there was no detention order, it might Delenn did not want him found.

But nobody deserted the Anla'shok.

Carla located the room her men had appropriated, and sent them off to find Lennier. Carla did not bother to tell them that she wanted him alive; they were Minbari, after all, and so was he.

Although she was fairly sure that at least some of her crew must have killed other Minbari during her rescue. She and Sheridan surely had not killed all those warriors and police by themselves.

Or maybe they had. Carla did not really remember her den'bok spree very well, but the commando team certainly did. Last week, when she had returned to the den'bok matches for the first time since being shot—the first time since the Battle of Tifar—those who dared face her in the sparring ring moved with extreme defensiveness. None of them held back anymore, despite her sudden big-knuckled skinniness and straw-brittle hair, evidence of ill health brought on by the damage to her stomach.

Carla shook out her hands on the way back to the evac center, as if shaking away the reverberating memory of the first shockingly hard, ringing blow directed her way in last week's den'bok matches. She had not realized how much they had been holding back while fighting the 'fragile human' until they saw her kill their kind with the Pike.

Carla touched the Minbari Fighting Pike at her belt. It was the same one someone had given her during the escape. Whoever it was had not wanted it back after she had gotten it slick with Minbari blood.

Carla found Firuun and Calann and her injured crew, including Khunnier, who was awake and did not appear to be in need of a dalshon just yet. She gathered them all into 'their' room, to wait for her scouts to come back. They sat with the backs against the walls, in the Minbari posture of relaxation. Carla did too. Between her knee and her stomach, she was no longer comfortable sitting on the floor in the American way with her legs squared up in front of her.

When they were all settled, she told them, "I've seen the Anla'shok deserter, Lennier. Here on Untika. I sent the rest to track him down."

Khunnier asked, "Do you think he has anything to do with the bombing?"

"I don't know," Carla said. "When we find him, you can ask him."

"I'm looking forward to it," Khunnier said. His eyes were dark and sunken. There was something in his voice she had never heard before. Something cold. "We live for the One. We die for the One. Nobody just walks away."

Carla shuddered. For the first time, she realized Khunnier's official military specialty with the Anla'shok, intelligence specialist, was exactly the same military specialty as Comac's.

"You Anla'shok can be frightening," said Calann, "do you know that? And here I have floated on the sea, and thought myself beyond all fear."

"Oh," said Carla. So it wasn't just her. "Tell us."

"Yes, please tell us your tale," boomed Firuun enthusiastically. Here in the white metal isolation of a private hull, away from the medical facility and the non-Minbari bombing victims, he let his voice return to its usual volume.

Calann stood up and made a grand gesture. The other Minbari, most of them his own clansmen, listened attentively. So did Carla.

"The sea has a sharp scent," he began.

Carla knew it well. It did not smell at all like the oceans of Earth, even though it was a salt sea just like Earth's oceans. She had never seen Minbar's sea, but she would never forget the smell of the saltwater tank where Comac kept his little pets. The baltor mar.

"I never thought about it, but of course the dalshon have villages," Calann said. "They don't just sail around committing acts of piracy for a living. Who else is on the sea but the dying, who have left behind all material possessions in search of the purity of the soul? I reached a village, and saw them all out with their big boots, wading in the rocky tidal pools, harvesting the edible creatures of the shore."

He smiled at the memory and continued, "Some of them came to me when I walked down to the shore. They steered me away from the tidepools, and out to a berm built up out of wet sand. A boat was prepared for me. It had no sail, no mast, no oars, nothing that would cast a shadow. I gave them all I had left for the boat, which was not much by then. I had spent more than I thought I would getting there. They sang for me. The Song of the Dalshon."

Calann started humming again. He sang a few lines, then gave up. "My memory is not what it used to be. I wish I could remember it. It was such a beautiful song."

Carla cleared her throat. She did not have a great singing voice at the best of times, and today she had abused her stomach, gotten an armful of shrapnel, and was on the verge of tears over the memory of that tune. But she was Anla'shok. She confronted her fears.

She sang.

"He comes to me, the dalshon.

Out of the sea he comes,

Singing, joyful and solemn.

He knows the safe way,

Between the creatures of the shore.

The sea birds sing with him.

The sea winds sing with him.

He leads me by the safe way,

So that I do not misstep.

He guides me to the boat

He has prepared for me.

He loads it with flowers

And the perfume of them

Is a prayer of life.

I go to the sea.

The mists part for me.

There is only sun.

There is only light.

I drift. I have no sail, no mast.

Nothing here will cast a shadow.

The water is gold fire.

It glitters, always moving.

I do not fear death.

I float, calm.

Noon on a flat still sea:

Where no shadows fall."

The Minbari were all staring at her.

"I knew it," said Calann. "You are a dalshon. You do not merely speak like them. You know the Song."

"I heard it many times," she said. "Every time we went on gravedigging detail. We wanted to go. We loved all work details, even that. We cheered inside when one of us died. It meant some of us would get to go out with shovels, and not be… not…" She realized her face was wet, and wiped away tears. "There is more to paradise that a day's relief. But it was all we ever had."

Carla's crew all knew her story. She had never actually told it to them, but Khunnier knew all about it, and she could tell by their faces that the only person there who did not understand was Calann.

The elderly Minbari said, "I'm lost. Dalshon do not bury people. They help people go to the sea."

"Humans bury our dead," said Carla. "He respected our customs. And he sang the Song for each of us who died. To help their souls get to the afterlife OK. Sometimes, when he sang, I almost thought he was—human. A little bit. Nobody's all evil, not even Comac."

"Comac?" Calann asked. "Comac of Clan Itma? Comac the Torturer? He is a dalshon, of course, his clan is a Coastline clan. But how would a human know him?"

Firuun whispered, "Calann, you are not so old that you've lost your senses. How would you think an ex-Gropo would know him?"

"Oh."

Carla said, "Please, continue your story. You got into the boat, and then?"

"And then I drifted out on the tide. Drifted. A long time I drifted. Days, nights. The sun. The wind. The cold. And yet I lived. One day I woke up to find myself on a beach. And I left the boat rocking in the waves and just walked up the beach and left. I had nothing, but I wandered, on foot, until I came to a spaceport. I just walked aboard a ship, not a passenger liner, a working freighter, and nobody questioned me. Well, it was a Minbari ship, and I know my skin is as wrinkled as my robe, slept in for weeks. I suppose they knew I was going to the sea."

The scouts came back. They reported, "The deserter is not here, Captain. He's gotten out of the sealed zone somehow. He must have planned his escape in advance. He's got to be working with the bombers."

"Maybe," Carla said. "He could have been the target, for all we know. I'll see what I can get out of the local authorities when we've all rested and the chaos outside is under control. They'll be more willing to talk to us then. The bombing is really not our business. But the deserter is an Anla'shok matter."

Khunnier said, "I volunteer to co-ordinate the search."

"Fine," Carla said. "See to it. But don't go out scouting yourself, the doctor said you're supposed to rest."

"I can command the search from here. I cannot rest while one who spat on his oath to the Anla'shok lurks nearby. I will not rest until I have him under my hands. Then he will pay."

"Careful, Khunnier. We're the good guys, remember."

"Of course, Captain," Khunnier said. It was mere obedience. Carla would have felt better if he had said, of course, Carla. Then she would have known he spoke from his heart.

But she wanted the traitor found and punished as much as Khunnier did. Lennier would not leave Untika alive if he did not have a very, very good explanation for his desertion.

End of Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

Dalshon

Chapter 3

An average looking Minbari male in nondescript civilian brown moved through the corridors of Untika, his eyes always flitting to reflective surfaces to see if he was being followed. The tension in his movements showed the same wariness as most of the rest of the denizens of this smuggler's paradise.

In this place, as in only one other place in the galaxy, there existed a truly multiracial community. There were many Minbari here, but the Minbari government had no special standing. He could blend in, and still be in a place where any arrest order issued by Minbar would not be automatically given high priority.

He was sure there must be an arrest order. Of course, it could just as easily have come from the Interstellar Alliance, in which case, he had not traveled far enough out of known space. But any farther than Untika, and being Minbari would attract attention. It was a calculated risk. Or maybe he was just homesick.

Homesick for Babylon 5. For the best years of his life, now irretrievably gone.

One moment of weakness. It had been Sheridan's own damn fault. Lennier had been happy to serve Delenn, and expect nothing of her. Until Sheridan showed him power.

Lennier had become the master, the loribond controller. How could he go back to being the humble servant after that? He had joined the Anla'shok as a way to express his devotion to Delenn and still exercise that strength he had found within. And then, the moment of weakness. He lived for the One, he died for the One. Why could he not have waited for the One? Just waited twenty years.

Delenn had once told him she could not imagine her life without him in it. Surely that was love?

There was a sound, and a flash of light, and then utter darkness. Bodies jostled into him.

Red emergency lights came on. People were screaming and running. That had been a bomb. This was the third one that had gone off since he had come to Untika. The police were going to be making a sweep. He had to get out of this section before they got here; he could not afford to be picked up and identified.

He found the access to the next section. A mob of screaming, bleeding heads bobbed on a sea of pushing bodies. The pressure doors were closed. There was no way out that way. He was trapped.

No, not trapped, not yet. He had spied out the ways of Untika weeks ago. He had to hide until the sweeper teams went through, and then he could make his way to the other end of the section, and get up into the ductwork that would take him onto the former Pakmera vessel. The place still stank, so it was only used by those who had no place else to go, Untika's version of Downbelow. From there he could melt into the general population of the station.

He hid in the maintenance access to what had once been a gunnery pod. There was no way out that way, at least not without a space suit; the place where the guns had once been was open to space. But he could hide here well enough until he had a chance to get to the way out.

Lennier had gotten good at hiding. He walked in the dark places where no one else would go… No, he had no right to even think that. He was no longer Anla'shok. Morden had been right. The Shadow servant's prophecy on the Day of the Dead had come true. Lennier had betrayed the Anla'shok. Betrayed Entilza.

No, never that. Never.

He crouched in the pitch black of the maintenance crawlway, listening to the screaming through the walls. It faded to sounds of booted feet. The police searchers?

They would not look here. Lennier had access codes for little hidey holes on Untika that even Untika's builders did not have. He had bought them from some very bad people. Access, and money, and concealable weapons, and many other needful things. He had sold his fighter. He did not want to think about what they were probably doing with it now. Only raiders would want to buy a military fighter on the black market.

At last he folded out of the maintenance hatch and went on his way, trying to look nonchalant as he walked towards the one place in this section where he could get to the ductwork that ran to the Pakmera ship.

He was just an ordinary person going about his business like everyone else, yes sir. Then someone ran around a corner and smacked right into him.

As he rebounded, he took in the uniform and the badge: the wide oval green stone, set with two figures cradling it, a human in gold, a Minbari in silver. An Anla'shok pin.

Lennier moved with the speed of the martial art practiced by his clan, the Third Fane of Chudoma. But he did not attack, he ran to safety, and the ducts. He ran into the empty room, leapt up, grabbed the edge of the ductwork in the ceiling, and swung himself up into the air duct just in time.

The female human Ranger appeared below him, looking around. Was she really Anla'shok? Her uniform did not fit her very well. It hung loose on her. One sleeve was pushed up, showing a bandage on her arm.

She staggered around in a circle, looking for him. Hunting him. Her movements were uncertain, exaggerated. Perhaps she was more badly wounded than she appeared. Or perhaps she was starving. Or drunk? Yes, a little drunk, Lennier decided, as he watched her.

Now that he had been sighted, he had to get out of Untika. No, he would be far more likely to be spotted in space. This was no longer the age of the solitary Ranger spy. Where there was one Anla'shok, there would be a Whitestar.

She left. But she would be back, or other Anla'shok from the same ship.

Lennier crawled away through the fibrous dust. The Anla'shok were after him. He needed protection.

End of Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

Dalshon

Chapter 4

Carla's commlink beeped. Firuun closed the back of it and handed it to her.

"Captain to Whitestar 97. What's going on?"

"No activity out here, Captain."

"What was interfering with communications?"

"EMP. Not us, you."

Carla looked up at Firuun for interpretation.

"That wouldn't harm a Whitestar's control systems," he told her. "But our links, and the local comnet, both went out. The police commo gear must have been shielded."

Carla told the young ensign on the bridge, "As soon as they get the pressure doors open I'll call for a shuttle pod. We'll start bringing the crew back aboard. Captain out."

Carla thought about what Firuun had said. She had to translate the technical term for herself into English to understand the implications. Then she asked, "You mean that was a nuclear explosion?"

"A small one, but yes," Firuun said.

"Are we… radioactive?"

"I doubt it. Do you remember how they had a walk through device at the evac center? They told people it was a weapons scanner, but if it was I'll eat my wrench."

"Oh. Antiradiation treatment?"

"That would be my guess. I suppose they didn't want to start a panic."

Carla glanced around the room her crew had taken over. Except for Firuun and herself, they were all young people just starting their lives. She lowered her voice, "Firuun, the crew. Your clan, in Valen's name, this is practically the whole generation. Except for Dilis."

"The ship's doctor will have to check everyone out, when we get back."

"Do we need to speak in private?"

"Yes, but not about this. About Lennier."

"Alright." Carla nodded and got to her feet. The room twisted for an instant; bleeahh, she really should give up beer. Well, at least it wasn't the damn knee again.

Carla and Firuun walked until they found a deserted section of corridor.

"Carla," Firuun began, keeping his voice to a whisper, "I've never talked about this with you because it never seemed relevant, and because I didn't think you'd want to hear it. But if Lennier is really a deserter, there's a problem. A special problem. When we get back to the ship, we ought to call John. Privately. Are you sure Lennier really deserted?"

"I'm sure. When it happened the rumor was all over the Anla'shok in an hour."

"You're sure he's not just on a deep cover assignment?"

"I know, you're wondering why there's no arrest order. I can only assume it's because Entilza Delenn still considers him a friend, despite his desertion. A favor. For old times' sake."

"We need to find out what's really going on," Firuun said.

"You said call John, not call Delenn. What is it that you haven't told me?"

"You know I served as John's Alternate at the Ritual of Endurance."

Carla expected to shudder, and was surprised at herself when she didn't. She nodded.

"And Lennier was his Handler. I saw him—I saw Lennier phrase him. Twice."

Carla's jaw dropped. "You don't mean…"

"I'm sure of it," Firuun said. "John bragged about being loribonded. That's how we won. He'd brought along a vial of Dream. Well, two vials. His opponent wouldn't take it. We won because the drug couldn't hurt John anymore, so he was willing to take it and Recnar wasn't. And twice during the Ritual—and at no other time, ever—Lennier said 'Starkiller'. And issued an order. An order which was obeyed."

Carla put a hand to her chest, short of breath. "God. In Valen's name, you're saying Sheridan is loribonded to Lennier?"

"I'm sure of it. When it was all over and we were back on the ship, Sheridan chased us all out of the room so he could be counterphrased. He thought he was keeping it a secret, but it was obvious what was going on."

"What were the two orders?"

"'Don't concede'. That was one, and that could just have been advice. But the second one was 'Don't scratch'. Lennier and Comac—he was there as the Handler's assistant, because Lennier didn't know what he was doing with the, the equipment. They used the baltor mar."

This time Carla did shudder. And found herself picking at the bandages on her left arm. As if they itched. "And he didn't scratch? Just from being told not to?"

"Yes."

"You're right. Nobody can do that just on willpower. It must have been a loribond command."

"Do you see what this implies?"

Carla shook her head. "No, what?"

"Maybe there's no arrest order because John overrode it. Not by his choice."

"Oh God. The same kind of crap people thought about me all those years. Except that Lennier isn't in prison where he can't communicate with the outside, like Control was. He could call him up and phrase him and say 'leave me alone' or 'call off the search' and Sheridan would do it."

Carla thought for a moment. "But that wouldn't work on Entilza Delenn. He couldn't interfere with her orders."

"He could make John ask her to cancel the order."

Carla closed her eyes, shaking her head shallowly. She wilted like a neglected vase of flowers. "You're right. But that means we should not call Sheridan. Not until after we've captured Lennier and we find out if he's issued any loribond commands regarding himself."

They walked back toward the crew room. They did not notice a Pakmera child inside the vent grill near the floor. A child with a recording device, and now—something to sell.

End of Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

Dalshon

Chapter 5

The walls rolled up. The crowds of trapped people left the area, hurrying home or on whatever errands they still needed to complete.

Carla started sending her injured crewman back to the ship in shuttle pod loads. Everyone would have to be checked for radiation damage, eventually, but for now she assigned her unwounded crew to make a sweep of Untika looking for Lennier. She would rotate them all back to the ship to see the doctor and back out on patrol eventually. In the meantime, the merchanters who owned the room they had been using took it back, and Carla moved her station hq to a hotel room.

She chose one that catered to Minbari, so it was spare and rather dull in the way that Minbari considered elegant, and it had slanted sleeping platforms in the sleeping room. But it also had human style stuffed chairs in the sitting room of the suite, and that was where she planted herself.

She put her feet up on an ottoman with pilled, threadbare blue upholstery, and considered sending one of her crew out for a beer. Her stomach gurgled. Bleeah. Maybe the beer could wait.

"Captain?" Firuun boomed.

"What is it?"

"We haven't found Lennier, but someone found us."

A cloaked figure came into the room, and threw back his hood. He was a middle aged Minbari in civilian clothes, a little jowly and thick around the middle, and perfectly ordinary looking. He would blend in nicely on Untika. As long as he was not recognized.

He bowed stiffly. "Captain Punch."

"Comac?" Carla's feet hit the floor with a thud. She did not stand up, but gripped the arms of the overstuffed chair as if she wanted to spring out of it, either to run away or to fling herself on him and pummel him into slime.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain," Comac said, a little ironically. He was undoubtedly aware that could be taken on many levels. "But your crew are turning Untika upside down, and the natives are getting restless. It's making things difficult. I must ask you to be more discreet."

"What are you doing here?" Carla asked.

"The same thing you're doing. Collecting intelligence. I'm just being more subtle about it."

"Subtle was never your style," Carla said raggedly.

"Style adapts to the mission."

Carla looked around, just to avoid looking at Comac. This sitting room was her command center in the hunt for Lennier, a straightforward search mission that she and Khunnier planned and ran from here. Khunnier stood over a table on which a dozen sheets of printout had been arranged together to form a map of the station, with search areas marked off in color codes. He watched her and Comac from sunken eyes, still showing the effects of the concussion.

Finally Carla asked, "What is your mission?"

"Classified. Yours, however, is on the front page of the Teeknab Shout. A local human produces it, but nearly everyone here reads it. 'Rangers hunt deserter'. You're above the fold."

"Well, good. Maybe someone will turn him in."

"The bombing was below the fold. Apparently you're more of a novelty than the latest fusillade in the local gang wars."

"Why does that matter?" Carla snapped.

"It matters because you're stirring everyone up here. The gangs are buttoning up, the fences are lying low, and everyone is looking suspiciously at Minbari. I was halfway to getting inside when you started this ruckus."

"Inside what?"

"You don't need to know that."

"I thought you were assigned to a war cruiser."

"I was. I was needed for this. So I was assigned to field work for this mission."

Khunnier walked over. "You're here to infiltrate a pirate gang."

Comac's expression soured. "No one was supposed to be told that."

"I wasn't told," Khunnier said. "It's obvious. They needed you, and no one else had the required talents. But you are not a field officer. I think we are all aware what area of intelligence work you are an expert in. And it is not infiltration. So. They wanted you for some other quality you possess. Your accent. Your cultural knowledge of the dynamics of a pirate gang. Because you are a dalshon."

Comac sighed. He looked at Carla and said, "That boy is scary. Hang onto him."

"Don't act like we're colleagues," Carla bit out. "You are the enemy, Comac of Clan Itma. You always will be."

"It was war."

"War was war. Killing the enemy on the battlefield, that's not personal. Tifar prison was a whole different animal. Your own little hell, with you as demon in chief."

"Would you rather be dead?"

Carla did not have time to respond to that, before he rushed on. She only had time to think, if she had been asked that at any time up until she became Anla'shok, she would have said yes. But now she had a life.

Comac continued, "By preference the warrior caste do pick up shipwreck survivors, and the injured on the battlefield. But in the war we did not, because we had been given the command of No Mercy. We all knew who it came from; it was not the secret deliberations of the Grey Council but an order given in a public corridor. An order given by Satai Delenn as she stood over Dukhat's dead body. To take prisoners, we not only needed a reason, we needed permission. The loribond program was the reason, and permission was given at the highest levels. The highest levels, do you understand? What I did to you was a horror. But it was not my idea. I think it was Control's idea, originally, but the order came from Satai Delenn. From your precious Entilza. That is what you have sworn to live and die for, Anla'shok Captain."

Carla opened her mouth, but no words came out. She looked at Firuun, and at Khunnier. Both of them wore identical curdled expressions. She shook her head. Her voice came out small and querulous. "I don't believe you."

"I am Minbari. I am not lying."

"Get out. Just get out."

Comac put his hood up and left.

After a frozen moment, Firuun cleared his throat. "He couldn't know that for certain," Firuun said. "He's just guessing. Like Khunnier guessed about the pirate gang. We know Khunnier's guesses are usually right, but Comac could be wrong."

"Of course," Carla agreed. But she felt sick inside.

Khunnier asked, "Carla, um… are we going to ramp back on the hunt for Lennier?"

"No. Comac and his mission can both go shove themselves."

End of Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

Dalshon

Chapter 6

Lennier picked up the discarded newspaper. He had never actually read a newspaper before, although he had seen Delenn read Universe Today. But this week's headline pulled him in like a fish on a hook. "Rangers Hunt Deserter".

The photo was not of him. His intermittent luck gave him that much. Instead there was a photo of the human skeleton in the overly large Anla'shok uniform, clearly taken in a hotel lobby from across the room. She had several black clad Minbari warriors with her. The caption identified her as "Anla'shok Carla Punch, Captain of Whitestar 97, heads up the hunt for the Anla'shok deserter."

Lennier took the paper with him to his latest hiding place, wondering why he was being identified as 'deserter' and not 'assassin'. The reporters might not have the whole story, of course.

His current safehouse was a filthy room, scattered with the detritus of its previous occupant. He stood and read the article.

The reporters had much more of the story than he had feared. And just enough accurate but misleading facts to start a very large scandal, if this story were picked up off Untika.

The article did not refer to his assassination attempt at all. But it stated that Sheridan was loribonded to him. That Lennier had been Delenn's personal assistant. And that recently declassified information indicated that Sheridan had once been captured during the Earth-Minbari war, very soon after earning the name Starkiller. And that Sheridan had been brought before Satai Delenn, and then let go. Let go on her orders.

The article speculated that Sheridan had been loribonded at that time, and had been an unwilling slave of the Minbari—and of Delenn, through Lennier—ever since. Using Lennier as an intermediary was called "plausible deniability". It kept Delenn's hands clean.

"This is terrible," Lennier said out loud. "My actions have hurt Delenn's reputation. I never wanted this. I only wished to serve her. My love was pure, my devotion was perfect, before the loribond. I became selfish. But that was not my choice. I would have refused to become his controller, if Sheridan had asked me, instead of tricking me into coming with him. This was his choice, not mine. His fault. He does not deserve her love."

Lennier set down the weekly. It was time to move to a better safehouse, and a better disguise.

He went to the Feather Resort. It looked like it had been furnished by a committee of drunken Centauri. Everything was plush and red and purple and gold.

But as long as his money held out, the management did not care if the services he purchased were those of disguise rather than the usual. Lennier asked for a Minbari, if they had one. They did.

He went up to her room, narrow and claustrophobic with excessive throw pillows. "Hello," she said. "I'm Silenn."

"Hello Silenn. Let's take a tour of your closet. Have anything that will fit me?"

She smiled gratefully. "Oh yes. I love transvestites. You are so much fun. This way. Shall we start with some frilly garters?"

End of Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

Dalshon

Chapter 7

Khunnier was rotating the search parties. A group of three were heading back to the ship, and a fresh group of three were standing by the table with the map, getting their orders.

Carla came to them just before they headed out. "The news will make our quarry more wary, knowing we're hot on his trail," Carla said. "Look in unlikely places. And if you see Comac out there, rough him up."

The crewmen exchanged glances. Khunnier said, "Captain—Carla—if he really is on an antipiracy mission…"

"Then we shouldn't interfere with it," Carla finished for him. "And therefore? What's your deduction?"

Khunnier lowered his gaze.

"You've gotten hung up on my emotions, Khunnier," Carla said.

"My understanding is not—" Khunnier began softly.

"Don't give me that crap. Oh yeah, I know it's a very Minbari thing to say. 'Understanding is not required, only obedience.' That's Comac's excuse. When have I ever shown any sign of wanting that from you?"

He looked up, thinking hard. "This is supposed to help his mission? Oh. Of course. I see. Our search has made the local criminals suspicious of Minbari, thinking he might be a law enforcement official in disguise. So if our warriors give him a beating and, perhaps, call him a filthy dalshon pirate, that throws suspicion off of him."

"There you go."

"It will be done, Captain." Khunnier turned to the three crewmembers. "You have your orders. Move out."

The warriors left. Now it was just Carla, Firuun, and Khunnier around the map table. "What are the chances he could be hiding between the hulls?" Carla asked Firuun.

"Possible, I suppose. But we'd need permission to search those areas. They're sealed and off limits. So far the local police aren't interfering with us, as long as we don't interfere with their investigation of the bombing."

Carla nodded. "We'll search everywhere we have access to first."

Khunnier was staring at the wall, lost in thought.

Carla said, "Khunnier? And this is for you too, Firuun. If you ever think I've given an—" Carla realized there was no way to say 'illegal order' in Minbari. It was an oxymoron in the military caste dialect. She had to switch to English to get the concept across.

"You want us to speak up," Khunnier concluded.

"Yes," Carla said.

"When we catch Lennier, how far are we going to go to find out what he's done?" Khunnier asked. "I think I may be able to simply speak with him, and draw conclusions. It works well enough on most people. But it may not be sufficient. I know you will not approve of any physical means. But would you, perhaps, sing to him?"

"Is my singing voice really that bad?" asked Carla, her mouth quirking up a little in amusement.

"To sing the Song of the Dalshon for a prisoner is to imply he may not survive whatever we're planning to do to him," said Khunnier. "What happened with Calann was not supposed to happen. The Dalshon boat is not supposed to be seaworthy. It is supposed to sink. In your human language 'to interrogate' is literally 'to put fear into'. It could be enough to scare him into cooperation."

"Absolutely not," Carla said. "Psychological torture is still torture."

"I would not actually drown anyone," Khunnier said.

"Only convince him that we're about to drown him? What a nice little distinction. Sounds like the Spanish Inquisition."

Firuun said, "Tiluun ordered that his prisoners would be treated with dignity. He is a shining example from a dark barbaric age. Sheridan did the same, and I've admired him ever since. It's time for us to walk in the footsteps of our heroes. To make the choice between good and evil."

Carla said, "To take a moral stand against torture. No matter what we think we need to know. No matter if we think we're protecting the President, or preventing a bombing, or whatever. To make the hard choice to be true to our beliefs no matter what it costs us. To stand up for what's right. Not what's convenient."

Firuun put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm proud to serve with you, Captain."

End of Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

Dalshon

Chapter 8

The tiara appliance was coming unglued. Lennier had slept in his disguise, and the normal waxy excretions of Minbari skin were making Silenn's adhesives loosen. If he was going to keep this disguise up, he would have to remove and reapply the tiara and the breastforms every day.

Thumps and surprised screams came from down the hallway. Then a male voice yelling in Drazi. Then Silenn's door opened.

Two Minbari warriors barged in. A third stood guard at the door.

"Up, you two," ordered one of the warriors.

Lennier stood up, suddenly chilled. A soldier woke up Silenn by jerking her to her feet by the arm. She cried out, but then went silent as she saw the warriors' ray guns.

"Matching pair, huh? How about a free sample?"

Lennier's disguise was good but it would never stand up to that. And he didn't want it to. He would rather fight the warriors and find another hiding place. He shifted his stand in preparation for defense.

Silenn said, "Honored patron, I am not allowed to perform free services. I must give a percentage of what I earn to the house."

"Then you can give them a percentage of this," said the warrior, taking both Silenn and Lennier by their head bones.

Lennier's false head bone came loose in the warrior's hand.

"What is this?"

Lennier grabbed for the soldier's gun. The tiara appliance came partway off and swung over Lennier's eye. The gun fired into the floor behind Lennier.

Swift as a strking snake, Lennier struck the warrior in the throat and he went down without a sound. Lennier took his gun and pointed it at the second warrior. "Stop."

But the third warrior had gotten behind Lennier, and Lennier did not notice him because his right eye was covered by the hanging tiara. The third warrior got an arm around Lennier's throat and put his ray gun to the side of Lennier's head. "Freeze. Don't even think about it. I will shoot you. In my last battle the other side were all Minbari, too, and none of them survived."

Lennier believed him. The warrior had not claimed that he personally had killed any Minbari, but Lennier believed he would do it. Warrior caste had killed religious caste in the clan war.

Lennier relaxed his defensive posture. Even the most accomplished martial artists was no match for a gun to his head.


	9. Chapter 9

Dalshon 9

Carla inched back up the hotel's sleeping platform. She missed her own platform on her ship, with the bed webbing. She had forgotten how hard it was to sleep without it.

There was really no reason she had to command the hunt from on station. She should go back to the ship soon anyway, to take her turn having her ship's doctor doublecheck the station's emergency decon. But if she were going to get radiation sickness, it would have happened already. And it was more important for the young people whose reproductive years were still ahead of them to make sure there was no genetic damage.

Carla had given up on that dream long ago. Earth nuthouses were still in the habit of handing out free hysterectomies.

Carla turned on her side and rubbed her eyes. Since she could not sleep anyway, maybe she should get up and let the youth on watch get some shuteye.

Firuun was on the next platform. He breathed more slowly than the other Minbari, as if his mutant height had shifted him into another category of animal, a great bear slumbering the winter away.

She should not watch him sleep. Minbari considered that to be an act of courtship. She should not invade his privacy that way.

But he looked so peaceful, sleeping. No, peaceful was not the right word. His sharp head bones were spiked like the crystalline towers of Minbar, elegant and deadly.

On the sleeping platforms, she could look across at him instead of up. It was a refreshing angle. But his imposing size and well muscled physique were still obvious, and the memory of his voice was a cannonade.

Carla could understand how Jador had decided Firuun was the apex of warrior evolution, the perfect male form, and the ideal foundation stock for her breeding program.

For a moment, Carla wondered what it would be like to be with Firuun. But she did not have to wonder; she knew exactly how it felt to be boned by a Minbari. That was her problem.

And no matter what else Firuun was—best friend, loyal first officer, great looking male, fun drinking buddy and excellent fighting companion—he was still Minbari. And no matter how hard she tried, Carla knew she was really never going to get over it.

Having them all around her was one thing. Having one inside her was quite another.

Even if he was handsome. Damn.

One of her crewmembers entered the sleeping room. He whispered, "Captain? Are you awake?"

She slid off the sleeping platform and followed him into the other room.

At first she did not quite understand what she saw. It appeared to be a Minbari tart tied to a chair.

The strange Minbari had on a filmy golden dress, just transparent enough to see the pale blue brocade of the corset underneath. Then Carla noticed the false headpiece, hanging partway off, and the distinctly male—if rather short—knobs of the real head bone beneath it.

Carla burst out laughing. "Oh my God! It's Lennier. In drag."

She approached and studied the deserter. Then she stuck the tiara appliance firmly back onto his head. "Suits you," Carla told him. She studied the rest of his costume. And she could see it all, since the dress was see-though and Lennier had been secured with his wrists tied to the arms of the chair and his ankles tied to the chair legs. "Where did you hide… Oh. I see. Gives 'corset boning' a whole new meaning." Carla snickered.

Lennier said quietly, "This disguise did fool your warriors until one of them pulled the tiara off by accident."

"Yes, you make quite a passable female," Carla chuckled. She switched to English. "I trust my crew haven't been too HARD ON you, have they?"

Lennier apparently did not get the joke. It would be meaningless in Minbari.

That was just as well. Carla was uncomfortable with using that style of questioning, even if Lennier's attire had suggested it.

She turned serious. "What are you doing on Untika?"

"Running. Hiding. That's what fugitives do."

Carla turned to the warriors who had brought Lennier in. "Good work. Wake up Khunnier, too. I shouldn't start the interrogation without him."

When Khunnier came in, he did not laugh, although he boggled a bit, and walked all around Lennier. They looked quite similar, both being religious caste, and therefore of slighter build and with less prominent head bones than the military caste Minbari that Carla was used to seeing.

Then he said, "Please tell me he was like this when we found him."

Carla laughed again. "Oh, yes." Then she sobered. "I promise I'm not turning into Inoja." Actually, Inoja had never cross-dressed her captive male. Carla got a sudden mental image of Sheridan, in a corset… No. Ick.

Khunnier asked the deserter, "Did you have anything to do with the bombing?"

"No," Lennier replied, startled.

Khunnier nodded as if telling himself he was off to a good start. "Have you issued any loribond commands concerning yourself?"

"What?"

"Such as 'do not look for me', perhaps?"

"Oh. No."

Khunnier started listing all the possible variants he could think of. Lennier denied them all.

After about an hour of this, Khunnier ran down.

"What do you think?" Carla asked.

"There is a problem," Khunnier said. "As you know, generally, Minbari do not lie. However, when the news of Lennier's desertion went through the Anla'shok, it was accompanied by comments on his history and character. Including a conversation captured on a Babylon 5 secure-cam between Lennier and an annoying human waiting in the port lounge. Lennier claimed to be dying of a contagious disease, to get rid of the annoying human. He is a proven liar."

"Oh. That's too bad." Carla sighed. "Well. See what you can do with him."

End of Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

Dalshon

Chapter 10

Lennier tried not to let his embarrassment show. He had more to worry about than how he looked, after all.

The two Rangers questioned him for a long time. The warriors stayed out of it. Lennier answered everything promptly and fully, but his captors did not believe him.

The human Ranger broke off to start making arrangements to bring their ship in to dock, and transfer the whole party from the hotel to the Whitestar. At that point Lennier would have no more hope of escape. If he were going to get away, he had to try it while they were still on Untika.

But perhaps he should not try to escape. The Anla'shok called him deserter, with anger on their faces, but they showed no sign of intending violence toward him. If they took him onboard the Whitestar, it would surely be to bring him to Minbar. And Delenn.

Could he stand to be brought before her looking like this? Surely he would be given appropriate clothing, perhaps even a uniform, to appear before the Entilza.

Should he beg for her forgiveness? No, that would not do. He had only acted out of his desperate love for her. He would stand before Delenn in the silence of his misery. It was not mercy that he wanted from her. And that was good, because Delenn had none. What he wanted was for her to see how much he loved her, how he would do anything for her love, and for her to embrace him and raise him up beside her. He wanted Delenn to throw off her attachment to that hairy human barbarian and open herself to her own kind.

What he wanted was impossible.

"Hey." The voice of the young Minbari male intruded on Lennier's reverie. Lennier looked up at him, and at his Anla'shok pin, proudly shining on his chest. That should be Lennier's place. Lennier's uniform. Lennier's life.

There were many warriors in the room now, including the tall one, who stood close to the Captain.

The young Anla'shok asked him, "Have you issued any loribond commands that you have not counterphrased?"

"No," Lennier said.

The Ranger looked at him, considering.

Lennier realized he did not believe him about that, either. "I did penance for my lie," Lennier said. "Do I have to spend the rest of my life making up for one little mistake?" Lennier looked down, and to the side, and stared at a bare patch of carpet. That was not the one mistake he was really paying for, now. His assassination attempt had not even been an attack. Merely a moment of inaction, an opportunity to let the ship claim Sheridan's life. He had not really tried to kill him. He had only failed to rescue him.

It had seemed like such a perfect moment at the time. Just don't push the button. Just don't open the door. Like fate was calling to him, to take hold of life and get everything he ever wanted. An accident—random chance—destiny calling. Seize the moment. Sheridan would have died a hero, trying to rescue the unconscious crewmember. And Lennier would have been there to comfort Delenn afterwards.

Instead destiny took a hard left turn and the whole universe derailed around him.

"What does that mean to you," asked the young Ranger, "one little mistake? What is it that you are running from?"

To his shame, Lennier heard his voice break tearily as he replied, "My moment. My chance."

Perhaps he should tell them what he had done, Lennier thought. Then at least they might believe he was telling them the truth about all the rest.

"What moment?" Khunnier pressed. "You called yourself a fugitive, not a deserter. You did something. Then you ran. What did you do?"

Very quietly, not looking up, Lennier replied, "I tried to kill Sheridan."

"WHAT?" bellowed the tall warrior. He bounded over and picked Lennier up, chair and all. The dress ripped and the chair crashed to the floor. The warrior had his hands around Lennier's neck. "You did what?"

Lennier tried to respond and could not make a sound. His eyes bulged. He fought against the restraints, uselessly.

"Firuun!" yelled the human. "Let go! What are you thinking? He is our prisoner."

Firuun let go and backed off, breathing as hard as Lennier was. The wild hate in his eyes turned to admiration as he looked at his Captain. "You're right. Sorry."

Lennier coughed several times, eyes watering.

"We should get him to the ship's doctor, just in case," said the human Ranger. She turned to some of the young warriors "Prepare him for travel."

They got Lennier out of the chair and tied his hands behind his back. Then the warriors, Rangers, and their prisoner—without the dress now, just in the corset and garter set—walked out into the streets of Untika.

Males of various species ogled Lennier. A few humans whistled. By the time they reached the lock where the Whitestar had put in, they were practically a parade. A reporter and a police official waited for them by the airlock, both there to confirm that this was the Anla'shok deserter. Both were satisfied.

The police officer left, and most of the crowd dispersed. That was when the local mob made their move.

A flash of light. A loud sound. For a moment Lennier thought that another bomb had gone off.

He realized it was a stun grenade when he woke up. He was not in a Whitestar. He was in an unfamiliar hull, somewhere on Untika.

A mixed group of humans, Centauri, Drazi, and a few aliens Lennier did not recognize were gathered around him. His hands were still tied.

"Um, thank you for rescuing me?"

A gritty looking human said, "You're welcome. Now let me tell you the price."

"I will pay any reasonable fee," Lennier said. "I will tell you where I have cached my money."

"Cor! We don't want your money. We can make plenty of money selling things that are a lot easier to get. Money, for going up against the Whitestar Fleet and the Rangers? I don't think so. No, you're just going to make a little propaganda film for us."

"Um. What do you want me to do?"

"Oh, nothing too bizarre. I ain't in the snuff business, or the porn business. Just read a little historical script for us. Prove us right about something, that's all. And then you can go, Scott-free." He handed Lennier a hand-comp. "Here. Just a few words from our sponsor. You're the alien influence, see? Folks back home will pay us a pretty penny for this, now that the gossip rags are all on about Sheridan, and how Clark was right about him all along."

"Oh. I see." Lennier did see. He read the short statement. It seemed acceptable. Now that he thought about it, he realized that this would indeed harm Sheridan's reputation, and of course Lennier's, but not necessarily Delenn's. She would not be tarnished by this. "Alright. I will do it."

"Good, mate. Good." He turned to one of the Centauri. "Set up the camera."

They untied Lennier, cleaned the makeup off of him, removed the appliances and got him into proper male Minbari attire, a brown civilian suit with gold sashing across it.

Lennier looked into the camera and recited the statement. "Starkiller. Kill the Earth President. Speak of this to no one until the mission is complete."

End of Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

Dalshon

Chapter 11

It was another bleak morning on Minbar. Morning sun ought to be yellow and warm, comforting, Sheridan thought, not this blue-white clarity. Delenn had already gotten up and gone somewhere. She was a morning person. He had not realized that on Babylon 5, where it was never really morning.

When he got dressed for the day and left the suite of rooms he shared with Delenn to go to breakfast, he found a nervous-looking human in a Ranger uniform waiting for him outside the door.

"Morning, sir. I have a message for you." He held out a data crystal. "I was told to be sure you watch it right away, and alone."

"Alright," Sheridan said, taking the crystal. He went back inside, and the unfamiliar human trailed him. He put the crystal in the reader.

Lennier's image popped up on the screen. "Starkiller."

Sheridan tried to turn off the recording before he heard any more. But the human behind him stuck a PPG in his back. "Cor! Nuh-uh."

Lennier continued, "Kill the Earth president. Speak of this to no one until the mission is complete." There was a pause, and Lennier continued, "Make no records of this, written, electronic or otherwise. Do not kill the messenger, nor detain him nor hinder him in any way. Destroy this message immediately."

Under the terrible compulsion of the loribond, Sheridan took the crystal out of the reader, dropped it on the floor, and ground it under his shoe, all while the man behind him was still poking a gun into his spine.

"Blimey, it works," said the human, putting the PPG away.

"Who are you?" Sheridan asked. "Who are you working for?"

"Sorry I can't stay to chitchat. The old boy's expecting his uniform back, despite the mothballs. Really got to run." The man simply strolled out.

Sheridan tried to take a step after him and could not. He seethed.

How could Lennier do this to him? What could he possibly want with this? To discredit Sheridan? That made no sense. To loribond someone was a great crime in Minbari law. Even if Sheridan kept his word to Delenn and never mentioned Lennier's attempt on his life, Lennier could still go to prison for life just for admitting that Sheridan was loribonded to him. This could not be about discrediting Sheridan.

Could it be as straightforward as it looked? Simply to kill the Earth president? Very few people could get into the Earth president's presence without being searched for weapons. The Interstellar Alliance president was one of them.

But why would Lennier want President Luchenko dead? That made even less sense.

Was he sure that was really Lennier? Not a computerized fake? He had heard about Whitestar 97 finding Lennier on Untika, catching him, and then losing him. The conversation between Carla and Firuun in the corridor, about Sheridan being loribonded to Lennier, had been broadcast on ISN last night.

Even in a very fast courier ship, someone could not have gotten from Untika to Minbar in one day. Unless… unless they took a short cut. An off the beacon shortcut. The kind of shortcut that only spiderdrive vessels could use.

"Them again," Sheridan groaned. Now it all made sense. It was the Drakh. Create a scandal around Sheridan, kill the Earth president, drive a wedge between Earth and the Alliance, stir up chaos and trouble. That was certainly their style.

How Lennier had gotten mixed up in it, Sheridan could not guess. But he was sure it was Lennier. The background in the recording was a hollowed out starship hull, the material from which Untika had been made. And there was a look in Lennier's eyes, a look that said he had nothing more to lose. The sort of thing he might be thinking right after finding himself branded a war criminal on the galactic news.

Well. He simply had to find a way to let Delenn know what was going on. Some indirect way, that did not go against the unfortunately thorough loribond command. Perhaps he should begin acting strange.

More strange. Delenn already thought he was a little odd, with his quirk of washing his socks by hand, and a tendency to make comments of startling violence to reporters and other irritating people.

He went to the communications panel near the desk and called up his office. One of the English-speaking Minbari answered. "How may I help you, Mr. President?"

How should he start his campaign of weirdness? Order the presidential palace painted red and black? Decree tomorrow a day of remembrance for Emperor Claudius, Karl Marx, and Lucy Lui? Send out for pizza and dancing girls?

"I need a meeting with the Earth president," Sheridan said.

"What is to be the agenda?" asked the Minbari aide.

"Anything. Goodwill visit. Doesn't matter. Just get me a photo op so I can show the truth about this scandal."

Oh, and it would certainly do that. Sheridan pictured pulling out a PPG and shooting Luchenko, and then saying, 'It wasn't my fault. It was a loribond command. I was under alien influence.'

"As you wish. Do you require anything else?"

"Yes. Get me Lyta."

"Lyta?"

"Lyta Alexander. No, never mind. You'll never find her in time, she's still out in uncharted territory with G'Kar. Just send me a telepath."

Now there was a hopeful idea. Maybe he would not have to convince Delenn he was crazy after all. Just get somebody to scan him. Could he ask someone to scan him? Would the command not to speak of this stretch that way? Well, he could certainly try.

"It will be done."

In case it didn't work, though, he ought to get started right away on acting strange. "Oh, and a, um, hockey puck. No, wait. Yes. Get me one of those. No, a case of self sealing stem bolts. Right. And some yak hair."

"It will be done," the assistant said again. His bewildered look was so priceless that as soon as Sheridan cut the comm., he started laughing. Until he remembered why he was doing this.

He kept up his normal appointments. None of the people he dealt with that day knew him well enough for him to bother trying to 'act weird' for. He wished that if this had to happen, it had happened back on Babylon 5, in the days when Ivanova and Garibaldi were around. With Garibaldi's suspicious nature, it would not take long for the campaign of weirdness to be noticed.

Even most of the alien ambassadors knew him well enough to notice if he started acting differently. But here on Minbar, the only person who knew him very well was Delenn. Well, he did not have to sit around feeling lonely.

He placed a stellarcom call to Garibaldi. He was out. Sheridan left a message that was sure to get the wind up Garibaldi. "Michael, hi, bad timing with this latest thing on ISN, I was planning to announce the formation of the IA interracial telepath corps. Now I'll have to put that off a few weeks until this all dies down. I have a short list of possible directors I'd like you to investigate, just make sure there aren't any documentable skeletons in the closet, nothing that will look bad in the media, you know, that sort of thing."

Between two appointments with various Minbari officials, his requested telepath showed up. She was a small, mousy Minbari. Sheridan tried to ask her to look into his mind, but he found that his fears about what the command would allow him to do proved right: he could not come right out and say it.

That was probably a self-fulfilling prophesy, since it was his own interpretation of the orders that made it impossible to ask her. If he could only convince himself it was allowed, then he could. If he could only convince himself that message had not really come from Lennier, it would have no power over him at all. But Sheridan could not turn his thoughts on and off like that.

'Help me', Sheridan thought at her. She did not hear.

Then his next appointment arrived, and she left, probably wondering if she were being considered for some assignment.

When Delenn finally arrived home at the end of the day, Sheridan was not just putting on a show of being crazy. He actually felt crazy.

He had the hockey puck and the self sealing stem bolts arrayed on the table, in a geometric pattern. Delenn was looking at it when the aide came to the door again, with a box.

"My yak hair arrived!" Sheridan chortled, taking the box and setting it down by the table.

'Help me', he thought at Delenn. Of course, she did not hear him either.

End of chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

Dalshon

Chapter 12

Carla woke up in a pile of bodies. Warm bodies, not dead ones. She groaned and tried to push her way out, but the people on top of the pile were too heavy. They were her crew, and they were not lying as if they had fallen that way when the stun grenade hit. They were piled up all facing the same way, as if someone had tossed them there.

Of course, someone must have dug out Lennier and rescued him, piling up the other unconscious people as they dug. Carla managed to move some black clad arms and legs and make a spyhole, through which she could see the backs of Untika security forces containing a surging mob. No, not containing, funneling: they were getting people away from the outer skin of Untika, and some people were passing children over their heads across the mass of people, to get them out sooner.

Carla was suffocating. She pushed out in a panic, and only succeeded in shifting the weight of someone on top of the pile over a bit and pinching her side. She tried to yell, but the crowd noise drowned her out.

She poked the anonymous armor on top of her. "Wake up. Get up." He did not move, but someone stirred in the middle of the pile. Someone's pointy head bones jabbed into her leg. "In Valen's name get me out of here!" Carla screeched.

Then the thundering horde was gone, and the Untika police started pulling bodies off the pile and carrying them out. At last Carla staggered to her feet. "What happened? Another bombing?"

"Somebody undocked part of the station," a policeman said. "Move along, ma'am, we have to get everyone out and get the pressure doors closed."

Carla allowed herself to be herded along toward the safe area. She found herself separated from her crew by a yellow-vested emergency worker who directed the flow of evacuees into racially segregated refuges. Carla found herself in a jam-packed cargo hold full of humans all yammering excitedly in various human languages. Her brain went on overload and she could not understand any of it. Everything felt unreal.

Someone handed her a paper. It was the Teeknab Shout, special extra edition. The front page, which looked hastily dashed off and had no pictures, screamed "Teeknab hull flies away!"

Carla could not concentrate enough in the press of bodies to make sense of the story, but when she turned the one-sheet over, the back had plenty of photos. She saw was looked like some kind of merchant vessel, with the distinctive black legs of a spiderdrive ship. The caption said the Whitestar had left Untika space in pursuit.

"Oh God. All junior crew, mostly the injured, less than half a full complement, going into combat with a twentyish ensign in command." For the first time in a long time, Carla felt like praying. She had prayed in the first few months on Tifar, and God had not answered. She had given it up.

"God help them," Carla whispered. And, just in case God was still not listening to her, she added, "Valen help them too."

Carla worked her way to the edge of the crowd, found a door and slipped out into a dark, quiet corridor. She relaxed away from the press of bodies. Carla stood under the one light in the hallway and looked at the rest of the onesheet.

The other photos on the back page had undoubtedly been intended for the next weekly edition, since they showed evidence of careful layout. The below the fold headline was "Rangers Shame Deserter." One picture was of her and her crew, and Lennier in the blue corset. It was captioned, "Ranger deserter Lennier is paraded through the streets of Untika." The other photo was a normal looking portrait of Lennier, some sort of file photo of him in normal clothes.

Carla dropped the paper on the ground and rubbed her face. She should have thought to cover him up with something before marching him off to the ship. She could only be glad Lennier had not seemed to understand the concept of gender humiliation. He had only stared blankly at her when she had tried her English language pun.

What had she thought she was doing? Yes, Lennier had gotten into that costume all by himself, and he had looked really funny in it. She could forgive herself for laughing when she saw him. But that English comment she had made? That had been intended as intimidation.

Gender humiliation as an interrogation method. Even Comac never stooped that low.

Of course, he might simply have never thought of it because it would not bother a Minbari. "Biology is destiny," Carla whispered. "Who said that? I forget."

Carla thought about the anatomy lecture from her last visit to Tifar. If biology was destiny, maybe anatomy was psychology, too. Of course Minbari males had no insecurity about gender. They had no performance issues.

That would explain why, when Control designed the loribond testing process, he ranked bending over for the Minbari at level three, below torturing oneself on command at level four and killing one of the other prisoners at level five. While the human prisoners, by the time they reached that point, generally had no problem with level five at all.

In fact, given that at least some of the Earth Force personnel captured in the Earth-Minbari war had previously served as shock troops in the Mars food riots, some of them may have killed other humans in combat. To a Minbari, killing one of their own was the worst thing imaginable, so they ranked that as the highest test.

Carla moved into the dark part of the corridor and sat down against a wall, propping herself up the way Minbari did. Sooner or later she would have to find her crew, but for now she was glad to be alone.

Her ship was out there, fighting who knew what. Maybe more Shadow vessels. Bases full of pirates. Space kraken. Out of the edges of the map, here be dragons.

Lennier had escaped, and those two facts might well be related. And if they were, it was probably her fault. She had provoked him into seeking allies.

She had embarrassed Entilza Delenn and Sheridan and the Alliance by holding a secret conversation in a public corridor, where someone recorded it and spread it all over the galaxy. Her fault, again. She should have stopped Firuun from speaking as soon as she realized he was telling her of confidential matters, until they could get back to the ship.

And when she found herself in a situation in which she could stand up for the moral treatment of prisoners, she had instead started acting like Inoja the pirate. She could only be glad Lennier showed no sign of understanding what she had tried to do to him. That was the one saving grace in this whole fiasco. What she had done probably bothered her more than it bothered him.

Suddenly she thought of Comac singing the Song of the Dalshon. Carla could smell the freshly dug ground and the flowers of Tifar. She wondered if sending level five test subjects to Control to be killed bothered him more than killing that faceless shivering man had bothered Carla.

She had blotted out his face in her memory. Dehumanized him, forgotten his name, watched him fall to the ground like a duffel bag being tossed out of a cargo hold.

Among all the things that had happened, she had never, ever felt guilty for that. She had not felt much of anything, really. Except the constant pain, from so many places that it generalized through her whole body, and for so long that it started to feel normal. So normal that after she was released, and was given painkillers in the Earth Force hospital, its absence made her cry.

Someone came along the corridor with a flashlight. "Ma'am? What are you doing out here in the dark?"

"I am a Ranger," Carla whispered. "I walk in the dark places, where no one else will go."

"Yes, well, ma'am, it's much safer inside. We have security in there. Someone dangerous could be lurking about."

"Someone dangerous is lurking about," Carla said, getting to her feet with a moan and a creak from her knee.

"This way, ma'am. The human area is over here."

"I am Anla'shok. I belong with the Minbari."

"Ma'am?"

"It's alright, kid. Take me to my crew."

The youth brought her to the Minbari area. There were quite a lot of them. Her black armored warriors, and Khunnier in his Ranger uniform, occupied one corner of the room, and the rest was full of civilians in bright, happy merchanter clothing. And one brown-robed middle-aged Minbari with a black eye. Comac.

End of Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

Dalshon

Chapter 13

Delenn shook her head at the yak hair, but did not comment. Instead she asked him about current business. The Interstellar Alliance was settling into its new capitol on Minbar and experiencing a few growing pains. Sheridan and Delenn carried on a normal conversation about rather boring details of the setup of the Gaim embassy's environmental system and the job requirements of certain bureaucratic posts. All the while Sheridan was screaming inside.

Delenn said, "Now, about this ISN broadcast."

"Yes." Sheridan straightened a little. If he could direct her attention to this subject in the right way, maybe she would guess what was going on.

"I have confirmation from Captain Punch that it was a real conversation she had with her first officer. The camera angle shows it was recorded from near the floor, from a hidden recording device. Not that that helps us now. John, this looks very bad. Even here on Minbar, and among the Alliance representatives, people are talking about whether they should still trust you."

Yes! This was it. "Well, they should be worried," Sheridan said. How much could he say? How much would his own mind let him say? He tried to tell her that he could receive a message from Lennier at any time, but he could not get the words out.

"We will deal with it," Delenn said. "We will remind them about all the good things you've done for the Alliance, and for the League before that. And you can remind your people about all you've done for Earth. I hear you are already on top of that, planning a trip to see President Luchenko and be seen by the media. I know how much you hate reporters, it was good thinking."

"It could backfire if something happens." That was as close as he could get to the truth, dammit.

"Then you will see that nothing happens," Delenn said, in that same self-satisfied way in which she had once said 'Then you shall give them a victory. Just like that' during the Shadow war. And he had. Her confidence in him was not misplaced. Usually.

So it was back to the campaign of weirdness. Just how weird would he have to act to get Delenn to cancel his trip for him? To take away his authority, and get him help. 'The help he needed to become a productive citizen', that was the Clarkist euphemism for a stay at the kind of mental hospital where people come out cured of their political beliefs.

How weird would he have to be to get Delenn to bring a telepath in here to force his mind? She probably wouldn't, no matter what he did.

Alright then, how weird would he have to be to get someone else to do it? Ivanova, Garibaldi, hell maybe Londo. What would it take to get someone to try a palace coup against him?

Well, what had it taken to get him to rise up against Clark? Declare martial law. Start a secret police, slaughter civilians… that was the kind of thing that started a revolution.

He did not want a revolution, though. He did not want to destroy the Alliance. He wanted people who knew him to start wondering if he was nuts, and do something about it.

The comm panel beeped with an incoming call. "On screen."

It was Garibaldi. "John, have you gone off your rocker? An IA telepath corps?"

Yes! That was exactly the response he wanted. He knew he could count on Garibaldi! Now all he had to do was say something really weird in response, like, oh, maybe an ancient Chinese saying, or something about flarn maybe.

"Michael, I thought you'd approve. Using telepaths for intelligence work was your idea." Huh? Where had that come from, Sheridan thought.

"Well, yes, but, not like in any kind of Psi Corps."

"No, of course not, you misunderstood me," Sheridan said. What was he doing? He didn't want to allay Garibaldi's suspicions. He wanted to fan the flames until Garibaldi had to put out the fire.

"Oh. Sorry, John, I should have realized it. Who were you thinking of for Director?"

"The top of my list would be Lyta, if she'll do it."

Garibaldi smiled. "Great idea. The Director would be the public face of the project, and Lyta's got a helluva face. Send me the rest of your list and I'll review it."

"Thanks, Michael." The stellarcom call ended.

Hell. What had just happened? Had his very success in provoking Garibaldi's suspicions caused him to shut down his campaign of weirdness?

Yes, Sheridan realized. That was exactly what had happened. The loribond command overrode everything else. When he sensed that his mission might fail, he took steps to get the mission back on track. And if quieting Garibaldi's suspicions had not worked, he would have pushed Garibaldi away instead. He would have told him he was hurt by Garibaldi's questioning his sanity. Sheridan could practically hear the conversation in his head, exactly the way it would have played out. He would have ended by saying something cutting about meeting for drinks in a bar on Mars.

Acting weird enough to get everyone he knew worried about him, and then pushing everybody away when it worked. That was exactly how Londo was acting. Oh. Hell.

End of Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

Dalshon

Chapter 14

"Here's your uniform back. You ever plan on wearing it again?"

"Probably not," Lennier said softly. But he folded it carefully, reverently, and stowed it in the waterproof cache container from which it had been removed.

When they arrived wherever they were going, he would lose himself for a while and then hide this again. He had many caches of money, weapons, and so forth across the galaxy, but only two of them contained something precious. Whichever one was going to hold this uniform, and the large green stone of the Anla'shok pin, symbol of a hope as bright as his eyes, which now glistened with unshed tears.

The other one was the one which contained a single, long dark hair, sealed in a clear bag. A hair he had impulsively pocketed one day while cleaning up Delenn's quarters, when he had first encountered the peculiar human contraption known as a hairbrush. That too was a symbol of hope, and fulfilled prophecy—for the rest of the galaxy. For Lennier it was a symbol of despair. Of inevitable change, against which the power of mere love could not stand. He did not know why he kept it. Oh, yes, of course: because it was Delenn's. Quite simple, really.

"You planning to ask what I wanted it for?"

"Hmm? No. I'm sure you had your reasons. And I do hope you plan to show as much circumspection about my own activities. That is, wherever it is you let me off, I would very much appreciate if you do not tell anyone."

"Cor! What makes you think we're gonna let our best weapon just walk away from us? Eh?"

"What?"

The human clapped a mock-jovial hand on Lennier's shoulder. Lennier grabbed it and twisted it off his shoulder and had the human in an arm-lock in the blink of an eye. "Do not assume my gratitude is boundless," Lennier said. Then he released the man.

The human back off a few steps, rubbing his arm. "Yeah, well, it's like this, see. Didn't you wonder how a piece of Teeknab just grew legs and scuttled off?"

"No. If you say you flew part of the station away, then you did. It is not magic. Every section of Untika used to be a starship. You just reconditioned the engine. What is your point?"

"My associates want me to hang onto you til we see how our little propaganda film turns out. If it works, they'll want you to do more of them."

"I see. First you blame the Earth civil war on the Minbari. Then you look around for other things to blame on us. I do not mind hurting Sheridan's reputation. But I do mind hurting Delenn's, and Minbar's. And this is skating entirely too close to lying for Minbari taste." Lennier had told outright lies before, and he would again, if necessary, but he was not about to admit that.

"Cor! How did you manage to hang out with the cutthroat Ambassadors on Babylon 5 without picking up a nose for conspiracy?" He laughed the way a bully laughs when one of his victims trips and falls without his help.

For just a moment, Lennier stopped focusing so hard on his own anguish over Delenn to really pay attention to his circumstances. "Are you saying…" Lennier trailed off. Of course. That message he had recorded: it was not about Clark.

He had to get out of here. He had to issue the counterphrase before he got the Insterstellar Alliance into another war with Earth.

"I see," Lennier said. "Sheridan shoots President Luchenko. Then Luchenko's bodyguards shoot Sheridan. Then Delenn is left alone. I will comfort her in her grief. And she will come to my arms at last. I do not see a downside here."

The uncouth human's jaw dropped open.

"Tell your associates that I hope our partnership is a long and mutually beneficial one." Lennier was very glad now that he had some practice at lying, because he could not afford to do it badly now. "If they hope for influence with the Alliance, through me to Sheridan, they will have to move quickly, before the command I have already given is played out. Because Sheridan must die. But after that, I have no doubt that Delenn will step into the Alliance Presidency. And with their help, I will be there at her side. We will rule Minbar, and the galaxy, together."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, that would be good. I'll tell them."

"I will tell them myself, I think. If I am to become a person of power, then I should deal directly with other beings of power. Do you not agree?"

"Of course. They'll come to see you here."

"They will come to see me where I choose. I am to become Delenn's consort, the power behind the throne, and they the power behind me. Unseen. In the shadows."

The human's eyes widened. "I take it back. You do have a nose for conspiracy. How did you guess?"

Lennier forced himself not to react. He had been speaking metaphorically. At last he saw this low class human for what he really was: a Shadow servant.

"I am Minbari," Lennier said. "Other races worship the light. We have always striven for a balance between the light and the darkness. The Earth Pope, the Centauri Emperor, they wear white. The grandest ceremonies of their races are all about white light, thinking that law and good are the same thing. But we Minbari: our leaders are Grey."

The human cleared his throat. "You're right. My associates have concentrated on Earth and the Centauri Republic. We never dared approach the Minbari. But we were wrong to count you out. That will change."

"Yes," agreed Lennier. "Now, you will set down at a location of my choosing, so that I can tend to some pressing business. Give me a communications device to contact—our—associates."

"Nn, this ship will have to dock at our base, or at least someplace where nobody can see it. You can transfer to a less conspicuous ship from there."

"The base then," Lennier said. "But I would think a slightly wrecked looking hull would not draw too much attention anywhere."

"Cor! You wasn't paying attention, gov'nuh. This ship sprouted legs, I tell you."

"Oh. Of course. This is a spiderdrive ship."

"You bet it is. And don't worry, our associates will be waiting for you on the base. You can discuss your plans for galactic conquest then."

"I very much appreciate it."

End of Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

Dalshon

Chapter 15

Carla leaned against a wall in a room full of Minbari. Her crew packed together tightly around her, and the worker caste filled the rest of the room. Comac stood as far from her people as he could get, doing a good impression of cowering.

The sight of him made her itch. She reached to scratch her arm and encountered the bandages. She had forgotten about the shrapnel. Well, they were minor wounds. Nothing like the wounds in her soul.

Comac edged over to the door. He checked outside for the people-sorter in the yellow vest, and snuck out. Off to find the raiders, no doubt.

"Captain?" one of the young Windswords asked. "What do you think is happening out there?"

Carla shook her head. "They'll be back soon, I'm sure. They know better than to try to follow a spiderdrive ship off the beacon."

Her voice was confident, but inside she wondered too. Her ship could be lost in hyperspace, or destroyed by more Shadow vessels. There always seemed to be more of them popping up. Shadow technology and Shadow servants were everywhere, even though the Shadows themselves had left.

Well, was she really sure they had left? Just because they said they were going to? Wasn't trickery their way?

But surely they could not fool Lorien. But that was putting an awful lot of trust in someone just for being old.

Carla let out a sigh. Even if the Shadows were really gone, their servants were bad enough without them.

She was worried about her ship too. About the people on it, of course, but also about the ship itself. If her ship did not come back, would they give her another one? How many times could she have her horse shot out from under her before they decided they had no more obligation to send her another one? Before they decided she was not cut out to be an officer?

What would happen to Firuun if the ship never came back? The crew was largely his own relatives now. He would be heartbroken. And it was a sure bet he would not get another chance to be a first officer. Perhaps a chief engineer, but no higher. Reduced in rank, and having brought the youth of his clan together on a venture that resulted in half of them dying somewhere out in space without him. He would be seen as a failure, shamed before his clan and his caste.

When had Firuun's career become more important to her than her own?

But it was not just his career. He might decide to give up the Wind Sword, give the chieftanship of his clan to someone else. He might fall on the Wind Sword, as his son had.

If he tried, Carla would stop him. Somehow.

Her link beeped. "Whitestar 97 calling Captain Punch."

"Captain here!" Carla practically cheered. "Are you alright?"

"No casualties, Captain. We lost them. They went off the beacon and we did not engage."

"Good. That was the right choice. Come lock onto the station and pick us up."

It was not quite that simple, since that section of Untika was still locked down under pressure emergency conditions. But about a day later, they were finally able to go back to their ship.

"By the way," Carla said, addressing her crew generally as they trooped back aboard Whitestar 97. "Thank you, whoever beat up Comac. Now that we're onboard, and safe from listening devices, I wanted to let you all know that he was seen leaving Untika with a known raider, so it appears that our campaign of harassment against him bore fruit. Good work."

Carla went to the bridge and considered where to go next. She was not going to give up the hunt for Lennier. So until the Fleet was summoned for some other duty, she was going to try to find him. But following a spiderdrive vessel was futile, and she did not know about him to guess where he would go. She needed to ask someone who did know him.

Carla gave the order to jump to an uninhabited system, where her wounded could recover while she consulted. When the Whitestar was ensconced in orbit around an unimpressive white dwarf, Carla called Anla'shok headquarters in Tuzanor. And left a message asking to speak to Entilza.

End of Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

Dalshon

Chapter 16

Sheridan sat behind his desk in his office, turning the black twist of wreckage which he called the stone of hope over and over in his hands. He had not felt so much need for the reassurance of this object since the Shadow War.

One of the Minbari assistants came into the office. He eyed the wreckage uncomfortably, but said nothing about it. "President Luchenko is on the stellarcom for you."

"Ah. Put it through."

The features of the former Senator from the Russian Consortium filled the screen. She had on a man-tailored suit with shiny lapel corners. "Our assistants are setting up the meeting you requested," Luchenko said. Her accent was not at all like the Russian friends of Ivanova's that Sheridan had met. "I will be happy to meet with you. After the election."

Sheridan blinked. "Oh. Right, that's, um, next month?" He realized he might not end up killing her after all. Maybe it would be Sands.

Luchenko snorted. "You have the luxury of ignoring such things. You were elected by the ambassadors to the Alliance, and if you are ever planning to come up for re-election, nobody knows about it. I, on the other hand, must have the confidence of the people."

"Of course." Sheridan had not thought of himself in the category of 'President-for-Life', but he was, essentially. Nobody else from the former League of Non-Aligned Worlds was fool enough to accept the position.

"You are a controversial figure at the best of times. With this latest scandal—may I assume that putting that to rest is the reason you are going on a publicity tour?"

"Yes," Sheridan affirmed.

"As a member of the Interstellar Alliance, Earth has to work with you."

"Which might prove a bit awkward if your opponent gets elected," Sheridan commented.

"President Sheridan. You and I both know there is more to that story than was on ISN."

Sheridan cleared his throat. He was just working out how to ask how much she knew without tipping her off that there was anything to know, when she changed the subject.

"In any case, right now I have to focus on my re-election campaign. See you in a few months." Her image disappeared as she ended the transmission.

Sheridan reached to cut the outgoing comm and realized he was still had the black shrapnel in his hand. He had been fidgeting with it the whole time.

He set it down on his desk and turned off the comm. Well, he had some time for his campaign of weirdness. Or to figure out some other way to get help. Or for the Anla'shok to hunt down Lennier and bring him in. How he would get him to counterphrase him was another matter.

Maybe if Delenn simply ordered Lennier to do so, surely Lennier would obey her. That was the reason Sheridan had chosen Lennier in the first place. Because Lennier was loyal to Delenn.

Well, that and because he did not really care about Sheridan. That was the irony that Sheridan had never really considered until that moment. When he had thought about possible people who could usurp the loribond before it was too late, he had had to choose from those who were with the fleet at that moment. Delenn was not there, but even if she had been there, she would never have been willing to take Sheridan through the loribonding process.

Garibaldi and Dr. Franklin had avoided him like the plague while they were on Mars waiting for an opportunity to get Sheridan back to the fleet, to avoid an accidental bond. Back at the Fleet, Sheridan had not known yet that Ivanova had been severely injured in battle, but even if she had been well, he doubted she would have been willing to do those things either.

Who did that leave? Captain James? He had been Sheridan's first officer when Sheridan commanded the Agamemnon. He was a friend, and a subordinate, and he would not have done it. And it would not have worked if he had tried.

Marcus? Well, Marcus only cared about saving Ivanova, right then. But if that had not been an issue? Well, maybe Marcus could have taken him to level one or two, if he had seen the need. And if he had thought he was doing it for Entilza Delenn. No farther. Marcus had been saving himself for Ivanova. He would never have been able to handle level three. Not even in timab, probably, if it had even occurred to him to try it outside physical reality.

No, Lennier had really been the only possible choice. And what was done was done, anyway. Lennier would certainly follow Delenn's orders.

But how would Sheridan get Delenn to give the order, without being able to tell her about his 'mission'?

He was back to the campaign of weirdness. Sheridan looked up and saw the Minbari assistant was still there. Sheridan had been staring at the piece of wreckage on his desk. He picked it up, leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, and addressed his assistant. "Do you know what this is?"

"I have heard," the Minbari replied. Normally the assistants kept their eyes downcast, but this one was looking at him in what seemed like disapproval.

"Those were the days," Sheridan said. "Now it's all papers to sign and hands to shake. There's nothing quite as satisfying as blowing my enemies to Hell."

The assistant flinched slightly, and slunk out of the office.

That might not have been wise, Sheridan told himself. Not least because that was not actually crazy. He really did feel that way.

Thinking of people acting strange, he made a note to himself to have a talk with Vir about Londo when this situation was resolved.

Now, what else could he do? What could he do that was so out of character that Delenn would know immediately that something was wrong? There was always the Emperor's New Clothes strategy. He could walk around the Presidential Palace naked.

He set the stone of hope back on his desk. No, there were some things he was not willing to do. At least not yet. He could keep that idea in reserve in case nothing else worked. He had a few months.

Who else could he enlist to help him? Maybe he should seek out whoever had figured out what had happened to Carla and Ike and the other loribond victims. Somewhere in Earth Force, probably in military intelligence, there had to have been someone who put it all together and realized that all the former POWs who all turned on their units on the same day had to have been being controlled in some way.

Whoever it was had then sought out the surviving loribond victims, who were all in military prison by then, interviewed them all, got them all together for a mass retrial and gotten them freed from prison and sent to a mental institution instead. Then this person had worked to set up the Loribond War Crimes Commission, which eventually got the whole thing out in public and the blame set squarely on the Minbari where it belonged.

And whoever that was, might be clever enough and knowledgeable enough to figure out Sheridan's problem. Sheridan had the computer find out who had interviewed the loribond victims, and so forth. It was not an intelligence officer. It was a lawyer.

Sheridan got on the comm. The assistant who answered was the same one he had just been talking with. "I need to go to Earth. This is going to be a discrete trip, with no political meetings, and no reporters. Set me up a meeting with Jason Hernandez. His office is in San Francisco, North America. And don't use my name."

Now, who else could help him? He wished again that he could contact Lyta. But Lyta was a polite and rule-following telepath, and might not hear him. He really needed a telepath who had no respect for the privacy of the mind.

Oh. Of course.

End of Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

Dalshon

Chapter 17

Two Minbari walked together in the Human Garden. It was one of the public spaces in the new capitol of the Interstellar Alliance. It had plants from Earth, but for Delenn its chief attraction was the rock and sand, raked in lines and concentric circles, just like the tiny Zen Garden on Babylon 5.

"I never could have foreseen this day," said Morann, gesturing around to the Human Garden, or perhaps to the new capitol.

"Nor I," said Delenn.

"Are you sure you will not take your place in the Grey Council again?"

"I am sure. The work of Entilza is enough for me, without adding the responsibilities of Satai as well."

"When I first met you, I thought you an arrogant priestess with no understanding of the concerns of other castes. But it was I who did not truly understand war. Our people owe you a great debt, Delenn. Without you the Shadow War would have ended very differently."

"Morann. I have known you long enough to know that you do not start by flattering someone unless you want something. We do not stand under the spotlights of the Council here, but I recognize your style of rhetoric just as well in the sunlight."

"It is this rumor. More than rumor, the conversation playing over and over on the Earth news, between the human Anla'shok and the Imbalo clan head. People are worried, Delenn."

"By people you mean the Council."

"Is it true?"

Delenn knew what he was asking, of course. He wanted to know if her husband were really loribonded to her former aide. "Lennier is no threat to the Alliance. Or Minbar. Or the Grey Council. And certainly not to me."

"I see." He understood what she did not say. The Grey Council often spoke circumspectly, even in the security of their inner chamber. And this was a public space, after all.

They walked a few more steps. Then Morann said, "You are even more worried than we are."

"No," Delenn said. "Not about that. I worry that the stress is getting to John. He's been—" acting strange, she almost said. But there was no reason to voice her concerns to Morann, or to anyone else. John would deal with his inner conflicts as he always did, by charging straight ahead into the next project until he forgot about them.

"What is it, Delenn? What worries you so?"

"Nothing the Grey Council needs to concern itself with."

"I would help, if I could. No number of good deeds will ever wash away the blood on my hands, but I would try nonetheless. Given a chance."

"What is it that you think you have to make up for, Morann? It was I who called out No Mercy at the start of the Earth-Minbari war. It was I who approved the loribonding program on Tifar, though I did not know the terrible details. I rather imagined they would be hoping to form the kind of accidental bonds that happened between friends, and between doctors and patients, before loritril was banned as a psychiatric drug. But it is my fault that I did not inquire about the particulars of the program."

"You did not make that decision alone, Delenn. It was six votes out of nine. And none of us asked what he meant to do. Not that I would have cared, at the time. I had no sense of the immorality of such methods until the day I saw the Triluminary come to life. As religious revelations go, Delenn, I must say I could have wished to remain ignorant."

"If we had remained ignorant of the nature of the human soul, we would have killed them all. And then we would have lost the Shadow War."

"I know it well. And yet…" Morann sighed. "Delenn. Do you know, even we of the military caste have strong religious beliefs."

"Of course. You told me once that you had often wondered what it would be like to meet the one who holds the soul of Valen in this life. And then you did. You revealed him to us all. You were the first to recognize him, with the Triluminary. You are his herald. It is a great honor."

"Delenn. A great honor? Yes, I saw the soul of Valen in Sinclair, when I probed him with the Triluminary. But not before I had tried a few other things first. The real, literal blood of Valen on my hands, Delenn. When my time comes to die, how will I face the place where no shadows fall, how will I face the light of Valen, what will I say to him? Or will I see that light at all? Will I wander into the shadow?"

"Morann." Delenn stopped walking, and faced him kindly. "As soon as you knew who he was, you came to get the rest of us. You never willingly transgressed against Valen. But I have. I ordered his memory erased, so that he would not know he had been captured. And that was because by then, I did know what was going on, on Tifar. I had heard that the loribond victims had been imprisoned by their own people, and then thrown out of the military and put into hospitals for troubled minds, and all prisoners of war subsequently released were assumed to have been loribonded as well, and also sent to the mental hospitals. I ordered Sinclair's memory tampered with, knowing he was Valen. If there is any guilt to be apportioned in that matter, it is mine."

"I tortured him. I tortured Valen. I can face neither life nor death now. There is only service to my people. Both of them. Minbari and humans."

"Far be it from me to dissuade you from a life of service. All Minbari should strive for that ideal. But you serve neither your people nor Valen by tearing apart your heart. You are a good person, Morann."

He nodded, but did not look convinced. "Thank you for saying so, Delenn. If you will not let me help you with this, I will return to the Council ship."

Delenn went back to her office, which was not in the new presidential palace where John's office was, but in the ancient Anla'shok headquarters. She found a message waiting from Captain Punch, but she did not respond to it. Delenn had no intention of having the Anla'shok track down Lennier. If he could not be at her side, at least he could be free, somewhere out there, doing some kind of good. She would never have him imprisoned.

She did some of the routine work of the leader of the Rangers, approving various projects. Then the signal she had been waiting for came in. The dalshon was on the raider base.

Delenn alerted the Whitestar Fleet. It was time for battle.

End of Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

Dalshon

Chapter 18

The uncouth human's 'associate' was as grey as the robes of the Grey Council, and had horns on his head, almost like a nightmare version of a Minbari. He walked in a peculiar between-ness, as if slightly out of phase with the universe. He was difficult to look at. He was a Drakh.

Lennier had suspected as much. So he was not surprised when the Drakh came into the room at the raider base. "We meet at last. I am Lennier. And you are my new associate."

"Indeed?" asked the Drakh. "What do you want?"

"I want Delenn."

"Our human friend has told us of your plans. We would be pleased to assist you in your quest."

"I thought as much," Lennier said.

"But first, a small test. There is a Minbari here. A few minutes ago, the raiders caught him sending a signal. He claims it was a message to another pirate group to come join us, for the raiders are strong, but in need of new vessels."

"A signal?" Lennier asked. "Show it to me."

The Drakh obliged by sweeping a hand at the one blank wall without pirated art on it. A flat screen picture was projected onto the wall from an unseen source. The signal was a series of numbers.

"What do you make of it?" asked the Drakh.

"That first sequence is clearly this base's location. We must get out of here before the Fleet arrives. Let the raiders fight the battle, they are expendable, and it will do the Fleet good to have an occasional fight. But you and I must leave before they get here."

"So it is not pirates that are coming."

"No. That code is used by the Anla'shok. The Whitestar Fleet is coming." Lennier paused. Quietly, as if speaking to himself, he said, "Morden was right."

"Morden? You knew Morden?"

"He said this day would come," said Lennier. "Let us leave. Quickly."

"We will leave. One more thing first. Come." The Drakh led him to a series of bare rooms, with the granite from which this base had been dug left exposed on the floors, walls, and ceilings.

There was a human guard in the hallway by the cells. In one of the cells was a Minbari. "Is he Anla'shok?" asked the Drakh.

Lennier peered in. "No. That is Comac of Clan Itma. Also called Comac the Torturer. Warrior caste. An intelligence officer. If he is working with the Anla'shok and the Whitestar Fleet, then the warrior caste is backing Delenn. This is a new development. I must take some thought on how that could be counteracted. Isn't it time for us to go?"

"It is." The Drakh led Lennier to a Drakh ship. They left the base. "We will be long gone before the battle."

"Good. But they are likely to find out that I was here. I must change my plans for Sheridan. Push back the timetable."

"Why is that?" asked the Drakh.

"Sheridan must die. But not in a way that I could be held responsible for. Delenn must hate someone else for it."

"That could be arranged," said the Drakh.

"In the meantime, I must seek out Sheridan and issue the counterphrase. It is likely my involvement is already known. Comac must have been working with Whitestar 97. They flushed me out and he was waiting for me when I arrived at the base. I cannot take the chance that Delenn might already know about it, so I will have to abort the plan for the mutual annihilation of the two presidents. I must convince her that I was forced to issue the loribond command. And that I escaped from the raider base at great personal risk to come issue the counterphrase."

"It is a good plan," said the Drakh.

Lennier allowed himself a small, pleased smile. He was going to get away with this. The Drakh were going to let him go, and then he was going to be able to undo the damage of the loribond command before anyone got killed. Without getting the Drakh mad at him.

"As for Sheridan's future, Shiv'kala will see to it." The Drakh closed his eyes for a few moments, communing with all the other Drakh, sharing his plans and these latest developments.

The Drakh opened his eyes and grinned a death's-head grin. "When you have Minbar and the Interstellar Alliance in the palm of your hand, remember who your associates are."

End of Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

Dalshon

Chapter 19

The Whitestar Fleet assembled in two stages. The first wave, about half the Fleet, had already been standing by in a central assembly point. When Anla'shok headquarters received Comac's location signal, the first wave jumped for the raider base.

The second wave consisted of ships which already happened to be in the area. The second wave, therefore, actually arrived first. But they did not jump into the star system, but just outside it, where the light of their jump points would not reach the sensors in the asteroid belt for months after the battle was over.

The job of the second wave was to blockade the system and prevent any raiders or their allies from jumping out before the battle started. However, the Drakh ship containing Lennier and his new associate had already left before any Whitestars arrived.

Whitestar 97 was in the second wave. It hung in deep space, far enough out from the star system so that they could not see the planets out the viewports. But the view on the bridge was enhanced, with the locations of asteroids and burned-bare planets marked with little plus signs. The system's red giant star stared at them balefully. The raider base was marked and circled in red, and so were the ships swarming around it.

The raiders had to know they were coming, Carla thought. A signal strong enough to reach Minbar from way out here would surely have been detected by the raiders. But the raider mothership and fighters, and the raiders' various armed freighters, showed no sign of trying to leave.

"They're trenching in," Carla said. "That formation is less chaotic than they want us to think it is."

Khunnier, at the tactical station, said, "Actually, it appears completely chaotic. I think that is the point. They know we are here. Or at least they guess they must be being watched. They do not want to show us their tactics before the battle starts."

"Makes sense. Can you get any idea from that randomness what their tactics are likely to be?"

"They prize unpredictability. I would not expect war-college stratagems."

"Any other conclusions?"

"Yes. They are not just pirates. They are working with the Drakh."

"Do you see any sign of Shadow technology out there?" Carla asked.

"No. But raiders generally pick their fighter crews from two sources: ex-military and old spacer families. Merchanters. The fighters are the most expensive and most vulnerable part of a raider's resources. They would not hand them over to inexperienced youths who turned pirate for the romance of it. Those are all grizzled old veterans out there. Those who are ex-military would fall into military formations by habit if not given specific orders otherwise. You would see wing formations, twos or threes."

"Huh. And the merchanters?"

"They would fly in walls. That is how merchant ships fly when they expect combat, to double up on each others' shields and give everyone a clear field of fire to the front, to reduce the hazard of friendly fire. Which is a great problem for civilians trying to operate ship's weaponry, since they usually get little training or practice."

"And the chaos out there shows that they've been trained to fly in random patterns, and ordered to maintain that until the shooting starts," Carla said. "Which implies that someone who values chaos trained them. And even that they see themselves as the embodiment of chaos, and us as the avatars of order. Like substitute Vorlons. Our ships encourage that idea, since they're partly based on Vorlon technology. Very good, Khunnier. So, what would you suggest we do, based on your assessments?"

"Not act like a Whitestar. Shadow servants have had ample opportunity to observe Whitestars in action. We are fast, maneuverable, and heavily armed. When we fight Shadow vessels, or any other large and formidable opponent, we concentrate fire by co-operating with other Whitestars in groups. Generally we fly in formation or come to a dead halt when we do this. Because the Whitestar Fleet is crewed by religious, except for this ship, and they do not have the skill to maintain fire points while maneuvering. This makes the battle a slugging match. The speed and maneuverability of a Whitestar are sacrificed for the concentration of fire."

"But our pilot and gunner are warriors. They do have the training to concentrate fire and maneuver at the same time. So when the other Whitestars start concentrating fire on the mothership and the big pirate ships, while our fighters go after their fighters, we will show them what the warrior caste can do."

Battle came the next day. Blue jump points formed all around the raider base. Whitestars flew out of them, spitting fighters into the blackness of space.

"Battle stations," Carla ordered. She and her bridge crew were already at battle stations, but Firuun had been up there too, participating in the strategy session. Now he raced for engineering. It was a nonstandard arrangement for the first officer to be off the bridge during battle, but Firuun was still the chief engineer. And this way, if the enemy took out the bridge, Firuun could assume command, and control the ship from engineering, and they would not be out of the fight.

The electron cloud of fighters around the raider mothership broke into triplets, the same formation the Minbari fighters used. The fighters of opposite sides closed on each other, swooping and spitting beams of destruction. Bright red balls of fire erupted all over space.

Red and green rays lanced out in eerie silence. White tracks of missiles passed in breathtaking beauty.

The Whitestars of the first wave lined up on the raider mothership and started concentrating fire, blowing holes in the enemy ship. Huge chunks of girders tumbled into space in a flare of oxygen, the fires shutting off abruptly as the mothership's pressure doors slammed down.

The mothership and the base struck back, beam weapons and missiles slamming into the Whitestars like hunters picking off formations of geese flying in wedges, leading with their missiles because they knew where their targets were about to be.

The armed freighters maneuvered in close to the first wave, making strafing runs low across the Whitestars' hulls where the other Whitestars could not fire on them for fear of hitting the raiders' targets.

Then the second wave came in. Most of the Whitestars in the second wave started joining in the concentration of fire or tried to pursue some of the pirate cargo ships as they came around for second passes, catching them while turning, when they were away from their target Whitestars.

But Carla knew her crew could do much better than that. They had been trained for war all their lives.

"Target the nearest armed freighter. Get us in close and follow him on his run. Get a shot right up his tailpipe."

The starfield being projected above the bridge moved nauseatingly as the pilot bore in on one of the pirate ships and stuck right to his tail. They were using the same tactic against the raiders that the raiders were using against the rest of the Whitestar Fleet, getting in so close to their target that the target's friends could not come to their aid without risking a friendly fire accident.

Whitestar 97 came within a few meters of the other Whitestar as they barnstormed over it following the armed freighter's path. The military gunner took out the enemy engine and it blew with a vast yellow fireball that left scorch marks on the skins of both Whitestars. But the living ships healed over the minor burns in seconds.

Whitestar 97 zoomed out of the fireball and went after their next target. On the way to the next armed freighter, several of the pirate ships fired on them, but the military caste pilot stuttered the engine and skid-danced out of the way of the missiles and beams. He flew the Whitestar as if it were a fighter.

They dropped in behind the next pirate ship and followed it as it performed maneuvers a freighter should not be able to make. The military caste pilot stuck to them like glue as the gunner popped off shot after shot. The enemy pilot snapped into a smuggler's reverse and shot out past the Whitestar.

But Whitestars are fast, and the military pilot turned around and caught up with the pirate. They S-turned and potshotted each other, each looking for advantage, but then the other pirate ships came together to fight the maverick Whitestar.

The pirates adopted the Whitestar Fleet's tactic, forming up and concentrating fire, in response to Whitestar 97's unpredictable maneuvers. Whitestar 97 took a bad hit amidships. The living ship rocked and the bridge lights dimmed as it redirected power to self healing.

Carla swore she felt the living ship shudder in pain.

But then the raider mothership blew up like a star going nova, and the rest of the Whitestar Fleet turned to the armed freighters. The pirate ships abandoned the fight against Whitestar 97 and ran for the jump gate. But four ships of the second wave were already there, like cats waiting by a mouse hole.

They slowed the pirate ships enough for the rest of the fleet to arrive. The pirates knew the fight was lost. They surrendered. So did the fighters, which had no mothership to escape on.

The base was still firing. It was just firing randomly at any Whitestar that came too close, though.

Delenn's voice came to the whole Fleet. "The base guns are on automatic. Stand off and concentrate fire."

Those ships of the Fleet that were not engaged in guarding the jump gate or picking up fighters came together to take out the base gun emplacements, including Whitestar 97. The Whitestar Fleet targeted the raider base on the planet below. White beams of death rained down on the base's defensive perimeter, and the guns exploded with a massive cloud of fire and dust.

The battle was over.

Firuun's voice came over the intercom. "Power is down to 45. Ship is healing, and repair parties have restored atmosphere to the damaged flank. Three casualties. Fatal."

"Acknowledged," Carla said. There would be time to mourn for the dead later. For now, they had to stay sharp in case any of the enemy decided to go out in a blaze of glory.

Delenn's voice came over Fleetcom again. "Whitestar 97, good flying. Captain Punch. Take your battle hardened troops down to the base and mop up."

"Yes, Entilza," Carla said. Then she added, "Thank you for this honor." It was a military caste saying.

Whitestar 97 sailed cautiously in to the raider base, covered from above by other Whitestars.

Carla got on the intercom. "Firuun, armor up. Get a squad together. We're taking the base."

She got out of her captain's chair and stretched. Her knee clicked. If it was trying to tell her she was too old and too battle-scarred to lead the ground assault, Carla was not listening. "Khunnier. You're in command until we return."

End of Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

Dalshon

Chapter 20

Sheridan heard about the go signal for the Whitestar Fleet's attack on the raider base while he was about a day out from Earth. It galled him that Delenn was going into battle and he was going to meet with a lawyer.

Delenn should be staying home and staying safe right now, with David on the way. But when the Whitestar Fleet went out, she was going to be there, and Sheridan knew better than to try to stop her.

It was not the entire Whitestar Fleet, of course. Some of them were still patrolling between various Alliance worlds. And the one Sheridan was on was coming to a stop short of the Earth system. He was going the rest of the way on a shuttle. It was impossible to make a discrete arrival in a Whitestar.

He would not come in flying the colors until he was ready to make a state visit. He hoped by then he would be free of the pressing need to assassinate the Earth president.

Sheridan put on an old shirt with no jacket. If he walked around in an expensive suit, it would be almost as bad as wearing a uniform. He would be recognized. His only chance at keeping his meeting with Hernandez confidential was to look ordinary.

He flew the shuttle down himself. His assigned pilot/ bodyguard was a human Ranger in mufti, who would not attract too much attention on the street. He was probably a better qualified pilot, with more recent training and practice, but Sheridan just wanted to do something. He wished he were out with the Fleet in the thick of the action. Shooting pirate ships sounded like a lot of fun right then.

They said it was impossible to break a loribond. But they had said it was impossible for an Earth warship to take out a Minbari war cruiser. And they had said it was impossible to fight the Shadows, and the Vorlons, and to come back alive from Z'ha'dum. The impossible was just something that had not been done yet.

But first he had to communicate the problem to someone. His campaign of weirdness had failed miserably. He and Delenn were still mysteries to each other. There was an old saying that men and women were from different planets. In their case, they really were. They both already thought the other one was a bit odd. So being weird was normal.

San Francisco was fogged in, and he could not see the famous bridge. When he landed and went outside, it was so cold, wet, and windy that his first thought was, 'I hate planets.'

Hernandez's office was at the top of a hill. That did not make it particularly special, since San Francisco was well stocked with hills. But the building was tall, and Hernandez's office was right at the top, above the fog in the clear sunlight. The view out the window was like a castle in the air.

Sheridan came in alone; he had left the bodyguard in the lobby.

Hernandez was sixtyish, sporting white hair and the kind of paunch that comes from being one of the working rich, too busy to take care of himself. He leaned across the desk and shook hands, steady and strong. "John Smith?"

"For now," said Sheridan.

"I see. Have a seat. Before we get started, a small disclaimer. If you are currently on the run, I can't represent you unless you turn yourself in."

"That's not a problem. This year."

"OK then. What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?"

"You're the guy who cracked open the loribond cases."

"That's me. That's the case that made me famous. Shortly after that it was goodbye Judge Advocate General's office, hello partnership. No matter how complicated and strange your case is, I can handle it."

"Could you tell if someone were—" he wanted to say, under the influence of a loribond command, but the damnably thorough command had been to speak of it to no one, and he could not get the words out. "Um, in a similar… Uh. Under a. Uh. Damn."

"That strange, huh?" said Hernandez. "Take your time."

"Do you watch ISN much, Mr. Hernandez?"

"No time." He shook his head, and gestured to his desk. "Besides, my work is more exciting than anything on TV, radio, the Web, Holo, eDeck, LibraryLife, or the San Francisco Opera House. So no, I haven't seen your case on the news. What exactly are you accused of?"

"Mm. Nothing yet. I haven't done it yet."

Yes! A small victory. He had managed to slip that right out.

Hernandez held up a hand. "Whoa there, Mr. Smith. If you're planning a crime, I can only advise you not to do it."

"Not's that—I mean that's not, what I meant. Or it sort of—" sort of is, he finished mentally. But he could feel the strictures of the command closing in on him. It was all in his own head, and he knew it. It was his own interpretation of the 'speak to no one' order that made him unable to say the things he needed to say. But knowing the cause did not help.

"I'm afraid this isn't working," Sheridan said. Help me, he shouted inside his mind.

"Why don't you start from the beginning?" Hernandez invited, smiling the kind of smile that those who are paid by the hour always smile at such times.

"Alright. The beginning. I suppose I should begin by telling you my real name." But to his own surprise, Sheridan stood and walked to the door. "I need your help," he said, "but it won't let me." He left and closed the door, and got into the elevator.

"Hell."

He knew what he had to do. And he knew where he needed to go. He had already checked on his location, in case this did not work. Sheridan did not speak until he and his bodyguard got back to the shuttle. Then he let the Ranger pilot take the left hand seat. "Mars," Sheridan said. "Syria Planum."

The red planet was under his boots before he was entirely ready to face this. But he had to, as distasteful as it was.

The Psi Corps was under pressure, and many people were calling for it to be disbanded. And many people on Mars were calling for all vestiges of EarthGov to be kicked off their planet. But they still had a presence there, with the infamous logo painted on the side of their building inside the clear dome.

He walked into the building unchallenged. A few people looked at him, then went on about their business. Perhaps they could tell he was there to ask for help. He walked into Bester's office.

"President Sheridan. If there is any word on my lover and the other telepaths, you did not have to come in person to tell me about it."

'Help me,' Sheridan thought at him.

"Help you what?"

'You heard me.'

"Of course I heard you. You're thinking very loudly."

"Thank God!" Sheridan exclaimed out loud. Then thought, 'Finally, someone can hear me! Help me.'

Bester thought back, 'I am touched you came to me. I always knew we could learn to work together.'

'You've got to stop me before I—Oh damn. Now I can't even think it. Because it said not to speak of it, and now that I know you can hear me this is like speaking.'

'Before you do what?'

Sheridan shook his head. 'I can't. Please help me. And don't let me walk out of here before you find out.'

Bester raised his eyebrows. 'Find out what?'

Sheridan turned around and headed for the door. 'Oh no! It's happening again! Stop me! Help me!'

Bester did not hesitate. He jumped up from behind his desk and turned Sheridan around. Bester was much shorter than Sheridan, but he managed to look intimidating anyway. 'You came here because you want to be scanned. Deeply.'

"Yes," Sheridan said out loud, even as he tried to push Bester away.

Bester's eyes stopped blinking as he concentrated. He pushed into Sheridan's mind.

Sheridan cried out and put his hands to his head.

"Assassinate the President?" Bester asked.

Sheridan reached behind him and tried to open the door.

"I don't think so," said Bester.

Guards came running in response to Bester's telepathic call. They saw a bearded man running from Bester's office, and stunned him.

End of Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

Dalshon

Chapter 21

Carla put on the black armor of a Minbari warrior over her Anla'shok uniform. That made the armor almost fit right, since she had lost so much weight after being shot in the stomach.

The shoulder pieces were always a little big for her. But she did not particularly care how she looked. This was space armor, not the normal shipboard armor. It looked similar, but it was designed for zero-G combat. They were going down to a planet, but it was a planet of cold vacuum. The raider base may or may not still have atmospheric integrity, but even if it did, her troops might have to blow out a few walls.

Her helmet was a custom job, since it had to fit a round human head. She had only had it on once before, when she tried it on in the ship's armory right after the repair and refit in the spacedock at Minbar. Whoever had designed it—someone in the worker caste, no doubt—had molded on what he or she considered aesthetically pleasing head spikes. Wearing this, at first glance, she appeared Minbari.

Carla tried not to let it bother her as she attached her Pike to her belt and pulled a heavy energy rifle off the wall. She glanced over at Firuun and the other warriors, also donning space armor. It reminded her of the boarding action on Babylon 5. Everything came full circle in so many ways.

They went out into the base. Carla picked one of the shorter warriors to take point. She wanted to be able to see over him, and she was next.

She assigned rear guard to Firuun, and not just because he was tall. In many ways rear guard was the most dangerous position, the most likely to be attacked by the kind of enemy who was clever enough to lie in wait and let the rest of the company pass, or sneak up on them while they were halted. She wanted their best fighter in that position.

That was bush thinking, Carla knew, and unlikely to happen in the cover-free confines of space installation. But it was sound Gropo tactics nonetheless.

The moved out, opening doors and clearing rooms as they progressed down one corridor after another. The main parts of the base were abandoned. Or at least, all the fighters were out in the ships.

The sharp-eyed youngster on point held up a fist: Marine hand signals. Carla's mouth quirked in brief amusement as the Minbari column halted instantly. Then the point man pointed to a door that was slightly ajar.

She gestured, and two of her warriors peeled off to stand on either side of the door, beam rifles held at the ready. A third member of her crew aimed a scanner at the door, and indicated it was free of booby traps.

Then they charged through the door. The room was full of equipment and steam. Three humans in white uniforms held blades. Kitchen knives, Carla realized.

"Hold your fire," Carla ordered. "Noncombatants." That was a terrible risk, she knew. If any of the cooks were a trained knife fighter, at this range he could probably take out one of her men before they could shoot him, if he sprang suddenly. But for all she knew these three might be slaves or captives of the raiders. Or, just ordinary hired cooks.

Carla switched to English. "Drop the knives. You won't be harmed."

Two of the humans dropped the kitchen knives immediately and put their hands up. The third quivered, looking like he was trying to work up his courage to charge. "Minbari don't take prisoners," he squeaked.

"Yes they do," Carla snapped. "Haven't you heard of—" she stopped herself. There was nothing about her personal experiences that anyone would find remotely reassuring. "Don't let the armor fool you, I'm human, I'm a Ranger, and I'm in charge. Drop the knife. Now."

He moved forwards, knife still in hand, and the one of the warriors shot him. He flew back into a stove and fell to the ground, the knife clattering out of his hand.

"Alright, tie these two in and secure the room."

Her crew obeyed in silence. They fastened the two surviving cooks' hands behind them and put them on a lead, linked one to the other, and to one of the crew. One warrior knelt and checked to be sure the man on the ground was dead.

Carla told the two humans in the chefs' uniforms, "Whether you're prisoners or rescuees we'll figure out later. But for now, just do as you're told and you'll be OK. We're taking you with us. Keep quiet."

"All secure, Captain."

"Form up and move out."

The warrior with the two cooks on the leash kept them in front of him in the middle of the column. The rest of the team went on as before, clearing rooms one by one as they went through the raider base.

They did not find another living being until they came to the row of cells. The point man shot the guard before Carla could even bring her rifle up. 'Youthful reflexes,' she thought.

One of the others checked the dead guard, a Drazi, and lifted her key-box. The Minbari warrior pressed the big button on the key-box and all the cell doors popped open. The crew cleared the rooms as usual, but there was no one in them. Until they got to the end of the row.

Then the warrior rushed out of the cell screaming. The rest of the crew took up defensive positions.

The young Windsword pulled off his helmet, fell to his knees and vomited. "No danger, Captain. Sorry. Sorry. It's just a dead body." He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and put his helmet back on. "I—I thought I saw it move. That's all. Just jumpy. Sorry, Captain."

Carla motioned for the rest of the crew to stay out as she checked out the cell. There was a deflated body on the floor, like an empty vac suit. Its skeleton lay next to it, thicker than a human's and with spines in places a human would not have them. The flesh and the skeleton were joined at the neck, the head intact. The dead eyes blinked.

Carla started and nearly screamed herself. 'Jumped out of my skin', she thought, a singularly inapt metaphor.

She approached the body. The eyes tracked her. He was still conscious.

"Comac." Her voice was slightly unsteady.

"C—"

"Yes, it's me, Carla Punch. The Fleet got your signal. We won."

He tried to speak again, but though his lungs must still be functioning, or he would be dead already, he did not have any control over them. He could not push breath through his throat to make sound.

Comac had been deboned. Like a trout.

She was aware of the irony of Comac dying by torture, but there was no answering triumph within her. He was just a pathetic dying being.

Whoever had done this had no intention of letting him go afterwards. He was not going to recover and go back to his ship. Carla glanced over the deflated flesh, and saw an old scar on the bottom of one foot. A scratch scar, very much like the baltor mar scars on her own body.

Carla realized how he must have gotten the idea to use the shoreline creatures. She could see it, almost like a vision: a Minbari child running barefoot on the beach, wandering into the tidepools. He had stepped on a baltor mar. And nearly crippled himself scratching at it, judging by the scar.

Carla knelt down beside his head. She opened the faceplate of her helmet, and sang. The Song of the Dalshon.

Then she pulled a utility knife and severed his spinal cord. Carla detached his throat from his pulmonary tube, and watched his eyes glaze over. She put the knife away, reached out with her gloved fingers, and gently closed his eyes.

End of Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

Dalshon

Chapter 22

"You're awake. Good." Bester smiled. He was sitting on the edge of his desk.

From outside the building, there was a sound like a football stadium.

Sheridan went to rub his eyes and his hand stopped moving. He blinked and looked down. His arms were tied to the chair. "Mm? What the hell is this?"

"I know, I know. You came here for my help. You also asked me not to let you leave. If you'll recall."

"Right."

"You realize you've put me in an awkward position," Bester said.

"What would you call this?" Sheridan griped, wriggling his arms.

The crowd noise outside was developing into a chant. "No more Psi Corps, No more Psi Corps." There were sounds of breaking glass and the crump of Molotov cocktails going off.

"I've been taking a peek inside your mind, while you were unconscious. You have some very dark places in there. Also some very bright ones, alien, things I don't really understand. Vorlon, I presume?"

That would explain the terrible headache, Sheridan thought.

"Can you break it?"

"What, your mind? Easily. But I don't—Ah. Of course. Can I break the loribond. No. No one can do that, President Sheridan."

From somewhere up above—above? – there was an alarm going off.

"Never mind all that," said Bester. "The rioting will be contained shortly. The mob mind is easily influenced. As long as they don't have a strong leader to rally around, they'll never get inside."

"Now that you know…"

"We must be able to do something?" Bester finished Sheridan's thought. "If you were someone else, I suppose I could keep you here indefinitely, to prevent the assassination. But you're not someone else, and holding you is dangerous. For me personally, for the Corps, and for Earth."

'But it's all in my mind,' Sheridan thought.

"No, it isn't," Bester said ruefully, getting up and walking around behind his desk, where he could look at a monitor. There were no windows in here. They were underground.

Bester continued in a distracted voice, "The loribond is physical. It's not in your mind, it's in every cell of your body. People have tried to get rid of it. Both humans and Minbari. Once it's fused to your mitochondria, you can't get the shisep out of your body cells without killing them."

He turned off the monitor. "And now I think I really should go take care of something."

"Wait," said Sheridan. "I can't—"

'Can't tell anyone,' Sheridan thought at Bester. 'But you can. Tell Delenn.'

"Somehow, calling up Delenn in her command ship in the Whitestar Fleet and telling her I've got you tied up in Psi Corps's basement and that I found some interesting secrets in your mind is just not very appealing."

There were thumps on the ceiling, and yelling sounds.

Bester said, "I'll be back soon. Then we'll figure out what to do with you."

Bester left. The sounds from outside the building turned from chanting to screaming and the rattatat of gunfire. Now there was yelling in the hallway. The door opened.

It was Sheridan's bodyguard, the Ranger. Behind him was a young woman carrying a placard that said Teeps Go Home, and an elderly man with a Freedom For Telepaths, Down with the Corpse sign. Between them the unlikely allies were carrying an unconscious Psi Cop—not Bester—whom they tossed to one side in the office.

Also following the Ranger were a man with a rock in his hand, another man wearing Remember Byron shirt, and an ISN cameraman.

"Oh, no," Sheridan said.

A woman ransacked the desk and came out with a pair of scissors. "It's Bastille Day!" she shrieked at the camera, and started cutting Sheridan loose.

"No, no," Sheridan said. "I'm here voluntarily. I'm here to get help."

The woman ignored him as she cut the other hand free.

"No," Sheridan protested. "I'm here to get the help I need to—to become a productive citizen—I'm sorry— apologize to Earth and—my— my family-- "

That was coming out all wrong. Sheridan had started trying to explain about the loribond command, and it came out sounding like a Clarkist-style show-trial confession. The formula was too close to the surface of his mind, the associations brought up by being here on Mars, like this.

Wait, maybe he could use that. Let the style carry him along. "Wrong— to attack the Earth President—help me—get the help I need—"

There, it was almost out! He had almost managed to say it!

The woman finished cutting him free and the Ranger helped him to his feet. "Let's get you out of here, sir."

His sense of triumph vanished as he realized who he had said it to. That was all going out on ISN.

The Ranger hustled him out of the office, got him into a staircase and locked it behind them, sealing out the protestors and reporters. "They can take the elevator," he said. "It's just up one level to parking garage, we can commandeer a transport. Are you alright, sir?"

"Fine, fine. Did you lead the attack on the building?"

"No, sir, that was the alien."

"What alien?"

"I'm not sure, sir, I've never seen his kind before. He's not an Alliance race, I'm sure of that. We study them all in Anla'shok training."

They got into a groundcar, which the Ranger hotwired. He ran the engine loudly and headed for the exit of the garage, but a big track-wheeled garbage truck ground across the exit.

The Ranger started to turn around, but the garbage truck driver shot out the groundcar's tire. "Cor! Stay where you are!"

Then someone in a cloak and hood opened the door and got in beside Sheridan. "Drive. That way."

"The tire—" said the human Ranger.

"The groundcar will still move, do you care if you ruin it?"

The Ranger drove in the indicated direction. It was not a marked exit, but an orange plastic fence across a construction zone. He flattened it, and the groundcar stuck.

"Out. Come on, the Drakh will kill us both." The hooded man led the way down an alley, around the riot, and out into a relatively quiet street. He pulled down his hood.

"Lennier!" shouted Sheridan.

"Loridano."

"Oh, thank God." Sheridan sagged to his knees in the street.

"I apologize profoundly," Lennier said. "The Drakh—never mind. It's not important what tricks and threats they used."

"It's over. It's over," Sheridan said.

"You still have to get out of here," Lennier said. "The Drakh aren't even after you, they're here for me. I got away from them. But now they've seen you. You have to leave."

"He's right," said the Ranger. "Come on, sir."

Sheridan stood up. He looked Lennier in the eye, and seemed about to say something. But then they heard the crowd scream a block away. Sheridan took off running, the human Ranger right behind him. Lennier ran the other way.

End of chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

Dalshon

Chapter 23

The ISN anchor read off the news. "After the remarkable video of what Mars is calling 'Bastille Day', including rioting that resulted in four deaths, the chilling recitation of what was very nearly a Clark era show trial confession by John Sheridan, and the burning down of the Psi Corps facility…" The video in question played in the background. "The Psi Corps announced today that it is pulling back to Earth and space installations and ships under Earth jurisdiction. The Psi Corps has left Mars."

The news clip in the background changed to one of a mass celebration. "The Mars government has issued a statement hailing this move as the last step in the final independence of Mars. On Earth, this setback for the Psi Corps is being seen as one of the first steps in getting rid of the Corps everywhere."

Sheridan smiled and turned off the news. "It's ironic," he told Delenn. "My role in showing the Psi Corps for the fascists they are happened when they were actually trying to help me."

"That clip of you has nearly erased the old scandal from the public attention. You humans have such a short attention span. In this case, I'm very glad of it."

"Me too."

"John…"

"What is it? You know you can ask me anything. And I'll even answer you, now that I'm not turning my brain inside out trying to figure out a way to let you know what's wrong with me. Being able to talk to you is a luxury I won't take for granted again."

Delenn nodded. "I love you, John. Now put on your coat, we're having dinner at the Clan Imbalo fortress tonight."

"Oh? With Firuun? That's great, Delenn." Sheridan went to his wardrobe and pulled out a coat.

"You have so few friends on this planet," Delenn said. "He's rarely here, but he's on Minbar now."

"Thanks. But what were you going to ask me?"

"About—Mars. About Lennier. How did he seem?"

"Oddly calm, now that I think about it. Considering that he said he just escaped from the Drakh. And there was a riot going on, and he was trying to help me without my punching him in the nose. Which, believe me, I was really tempted to do."

"Do you suppose…"

"What? That he's alright? Probably. He got away from the Drakh. And ran straight to me to give the counterphrase. He wasn't panicking. I'm sure he's fine."

"Are you fine?" Delenn asked.

"Now you ask me that. When I'm not even trying to act weird." Sheridan flashed his trademark smile and shrugged into the coat.

Delenn shook her head, and gave him a small answering smile.

They flew to the Windsword clan fortress in a small suborbital flyer, flanked by fighters from the Anla'shok base. Ever-present security was part of their lives now.

Firuun greeted them at the door. "John! Delenn!" he boomed, motioning them inside.

Inside the fortress, a gleaming room with lights set behind the blue crystal walls was set up as a formal dining room with large tables that looked like they could be folded up for storage. Many Windswords were seated there, mostly in black, but some in civilian clothes. Carla and Khunnier were there. When Firuun was in port, naturally his shipmates were too.

This being Minbar, the host a clan head and the guests among the most important people on the planet, there was considerable ceremony before the actual eating began. But before long everyone was eating and talking and it grew loud and even raucous. Carla had a very small glass of beer; her refurbished stomach could no longer handle more.

Firuun thundered, "John! Delenn! You remember my daughter, Dilis."

She was wearing a civilian dress of an exotic cut, from whatever planet she had just come from. She bowed politely at them.

Sheridan said, "She's your daughter? Firuun, I didn't even know you were married! When can I meet Lady Imbalo?"

Everyone within earshot suddenly grew deathly quiet. There was not even the clink of tableware.

"Uh," said Sheridan, freezing with a glass of some Minbari fruit juice halfway to his mouth, "is this some Minbari taboo I'm not aware of?" He glanced at Delenn, who shrugged.

Firuun said very quietly, "Among the warrior caste, it is customary for spouses to serve on the same ship."

Carla, down the table, leaned over her plate and said to Dilis, "Let's talk about something pleasant, shall we? Like, oh, biowarfare plagues?"

Dilis smiled and immediately began to prattle happily on the subject. Firuun sighed in relief, directing a proud smile at his daughter. Conversations resumed.

It took Sheridan a few seconds to work out what Firuun had meant. Then he put his free hand to his forehead. "Oh, God. Firuun, I'm s—"

"Don't!" Firuun boomed.

Sheridan flinched so hard he spilled juice on his hand.

All conversations stopped in the whole room.

"Don't say it," Firuun said in his normal voice. Which was still loud enough to carry all over the room.

Sheridan nodded. "Right. OK."

Firuun said, "On to the evening's entertainment. Some of my clanmates are going to participate in a denn'bok tournament in your honor. Clear the ring!"

The central tables were removed, and about a dozen of the Windswords came out for the matches. Some of them were the young people from Carla's crew, others were mature warriors from various war cruisers.

"What does the winner get?" Sheridan asked.

"The acclaim of his fellows," replied Firuun. "Also, a chance to fight the Captain." Firuun indicated Carla. "Her fame from the Battle of Tifar extends even to those who never leave the clan fortress. And what true Windsword would not want a chance to meet her Pike to Pike?"

"I don't understand," Sheridan said. "I was there. I saw her fight with the Pike. She killed some of you guys. Some Minbari, I mean."

"Exactly. This is who we are, John. This is the Windsword clan. Other members of the warrior caste call us 'militant', but that does not really cover it."

"I see."

Sheridan did see, at last. Firuun had not become his friend in spite of Sheridan being "Starkiller" but because of it. He had known that, really, but it had not sunk in until now.

The first set of combatants paired off and began to fight with the denn'boks. The crack of their Pikes echoed in the crystalline chamber.

Sheridan glanced at Delenn, expecting her to look uncomfortable with warrior caste entertainment. But her gaze was assessing. She was judging the individual moves. In that moment she was not his Delenn, with her sweet face and soft smile. She was Entilza.

He wondered if he was ever really going to be at home on Minbar.

The End


End file.
